GW Lightning Arc 7 My Rose
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: The last battle. Zechs ready to plunge the Libra into Earth... Treize trying to brave Fate... will he win through one last time? The ultimate confrontation between the General and his former Second. Gives away the end of the series, before Endless Waltz.
1. Chapter 1 Stardust

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: The last battle. Zechs ready to plunge the Libra into Earth... Treize trying to brave Fate... will he win through one last time? The ultimate confrontation between the General and his former Second. **Gives away the end of the series**, before Endless Waltz.

**xxx**

**Chapter 1 - Stardust**

Remember.

A sunny, clear day in winter. Hours spent riding in the snowbound forest, a dusting of white on Treize's coat and hair, his cheeks reddened by the cold, his face flushed and his eyes bright with the pleasure of living...

Zechs raked his hand through his hair, swept back the mass of silverblond that had grown back, rich and smooth, since he had left the hospital.

_Another nightmare.  
__Another lifetime._

From beneath mussed bangs, he stared at the computer screen and tried to focus on the columns of data that scrolled down, a steady stream of numbers, symbols, images, dreams...

_No, no, no. _He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Une was right, spending fourteen hours a day staring at screens and another three fleecing through paperwork did nothing for his concentration, even though this did not show in the work he delivered. Facts and data analysed with the crisp precision of a human mind honed to perfection, and presented with the pristine exactness Treize had instilled in all of his officers.

Zechs began to push papers together in neat, ordered stacks even as his thoughts strayed yet again. It was snowing heavily outside, he could see the sky, leaden and low, and white fluff cling to the ledges of his office window, greying the light. One of those days that never rose from a dull morning but seemed to fade seamlessly into muted dusk and silent nights.

It did not help when he was trying to forget those brighter ones. Days gleaming and shimmering with promise, blue and silver and blindingly white, with the sun dazzling on myriads of ice crystals and frozen droplets like chains of crystals, studding the black branches of the wintry forest. Treize had loved the forest. Riding one of the sturdy, shaggy horses that were kept out of doors all year round, swathed in the steamy breath of the animal and white puffs of his own, whooping with the joy of it all...

_No point in carrying on._ Zechs did not bother to check the time. For the looks of it, it was early afternoon, and he had worked through the previous night because he had not been able to sleep. The Mars project had caught his interest, he had admitted to Une, and for some reason, she appeared relieved. He had found out just why when she handed him a stack of files, a sealed note with an encryption key and his new security clearance. Top level access to all files pertaining the project, plus everything Treize had bequeathed to them... to his soldiers, the invisible army that was working to fulfil his dream.

_New OZ. Life beyond death. Was that what he meant? His promise never to leave? How very much like Treize – sly, underhanded, layered. Never to be taken at face value... It was not what I meant, and he knew..._

Tiredly, yet still controlled and meticulous, he began to touch fields on the screen of the computer to close the terminal down.

One of those days, glittering and shiny like a diamond, they had returned when the sun began to set in a blaze of pink and molten copper, and Treize had taken Zech's coat and removed his own, giving him a smile that lay more in those intense blue eyes than on his lips. The house had been still, a lull of the usual bustle of servants and events. On the hearth in the drawing room burned a low fire, and from somewhere far away – possibly the servants' wing – they heard music. A distant tune, floating dreamily, a slow waltz.

Zechs watched the screen turn black and he saw...

...Treize looking at him with this smile in his eyes, and then he stretched out one arm, and Zechs laid his hand on Treize's shoulder even as Treize's hand settled on Zechs' waist. "You lead," Treize said quietly.

"But-"

"You are taller than me now."

_How old were we? It was my first homecoming after the final exams at the Academy, and he used my passing with flying colours as an excuse to show me off... so incredibly happy... I was seventeen, I think... and he... glorious twenty two, with the world at his feet in the truest sense of the word..._

So they had been dancing. Or rather, swaying softly in the flowing rhythm of the music that was faint enough to be mistaken for a dream, their booted feet shuffling quietly on the carpeted floor Zechs smiled thinly; it seemed silly now – and yet, it had not been then, when Treize sighed a little and leaned into him, bedding his chin on Zechs' shoulder. "Ay, Milusha moy... tak krasivoy..."**1**

"Are your eyes closed now?" the younger man whispered.

And Treize had nodded without letting go. "Yes, Miliusha."

"Why can't we..." _...dance like this, kiss, embrace in public..._

"One day." _Never._

"Not now?"

"The world at large," Treize looked up and smiled at him, "is not as tolerant as it likes to believe, my dear friend."

"Are you ashamed of me?"

Treize took his hand and the lead, his arm settling firmly around Zechs' waist as he swung them around in a few fast, spirited turns before letting go even as they slowed to a halt near the French doors that overlooked the snowbound park. "You see this?" he nodded at their double reflection in the glass, and the shimmering, frozen brightness beyond, shadows growing blue and long, fadingalready in the pallid splendorof the early winter dusk. It was a perfect picture.

"Yes."

"Would you be ashamed to own it?"

He turned to look at Zechs who flushed intensely. Treize indeed seemed to expect an answer; he always did. Zechs did not know what to say, or what to do with his hands. Treize took them between his own and lifted them to press a firm kiss to Zechs' knuckles, blue eyes sharp and shiny as he still looked at him expectantly. Zechs swallowed hard and unconsciously slid the tip of his tongue over his lips. "I... no. I would be... happy."

"Proud," Treize supplied quietly, drawing him close again. "I am proud. You make me so."

xxx 

Stomping through slushy snow, trampled over by many feet during the day, Zechs went home – a generous apartment in one of the buildings that housed the officer's quarters on the campus of the Preventer Headquarters. The junior officer at the reception greeted him respectfully as he stepped inside and flicked his ID badge. Not that he needed it; for it appeared that everyone knew him. He suspected it was his own fault for refusing to chop off his silver mane, but he was beyond caring. As long as Une could handle the publicity, and it did not damage Relena's position, he could shrug off the gossip.

He had argued with Une when she assigned him this place for his living quarters – _I don't need four bedrooms and a study, and what should I do with a dining room_ – but she had been hardnosed, and he had been too jaded to struggle. Perhaps this was Relena's way to take care of him, and for this he had come to be grateful. She provided some kind of meaning to his life, and when his moods took a nosedive, he imagined her, slight and alone in the palatial mansion she inhabited, with scores of servile spirits and no one close.

_You're all I've left,_ she had told him, her eyes dark and intense, _please do not leave me now._

She had spoken quietly, her face composed, tearless, but he read the anxiety in her gaze, felt it in the grip of her hand on his wrist, saw it on her lips that were bitten raw. Perhaps here lay a tiny sliver of redemption for him, in being useful to her and to what Une had called New OZ.

_Treize's soldiers. The army that never retreats..._

He suddenly felt cold, and a shudder ran through him.

Through the unshuttered window, stretching from the floor to the ceiling of the lounge, flowed the dim sheen of the campus lights. Zechs pulled off his shoes by the door, took off his coat and shawl, placed them neatly on the hangers of the heated wardrobe alcove, and wandered in without turning on the light. Socked feet making nearly no sound on thick, dark-red carpet and polished hardwood as he crossed the room to the bathroom and turned on the taps to fill the tub.

Then he went to the kitchen to make coffee and find something to eat. While he rummaged around in the cupboards for bread and cheese, the soft clatter of crockery and the hiss of the kettle weaving into the distant running of the water, he let the stillness of the place sink into his mind. He had neither television nor anything to play music; he enjoyed the quiet because it allowed him to drift back into his memories. For he had long given up to fight them, and taken to indulge himself in those daydreaming escapades.

Perhaps, if he dreamed often and hard enough, they would come true.

He gave up trying to find some sandwich material and picked a military ration bar instead from a stack in the breadbox. He ate it standing at the kitchen counter, and then took the mug with coffee to the bathroom where he set it on the vanity unit. He poured some pine-scented bath oil into the tub and began to undress.

xxx 

That night, while he was soaking in the tub after the dance in the drawing room, he had left open the door to the bathroom he and Treize shared. He had sunk himself into the hot, pine-scented water and closed his eyes, letting his body and mind drift into cloudy neverland, his hair fanning out around him...

He had hoped and still was startled when he heard the door shut with a soft thud. A moment later, Treize's scent of steel and roses wafted over him, and Zechs felt the swirl of warm water being stirred about his chest. He kept his eyes firmly closed, yet he could feel Treize's gaze even as the older man's hand brushed away suds of foam in a caress of the water that rippled over Zechs' body in a strangely distant, tender way.

"Why are you doing this?" Treize asked quietly, sweeping the foam clear of Zechs' floating limbs.

Zechs knew he blushed, the flush extending bright pink from his face over his neck and chest. "What?" he asked thickly, still refusing to face Treize.

"Shave your body. Grow your hair."

The blush deepened, and he tried to turn his back on Treize, who gently pressed against his shoulder to hold him still. "No, let me look at you. Please."

Zechs felt ready to die of embarrassment, and yet...

Treize's hand swept down the contours of his arm, travelled back up, and down his chest, his flank, his hip... Zechs sat up abruptly, amid a rush of water, and tried to cover up his middle even as he knelt to get to his feet, his hair a sodden tangle about his face and neck, hiding him.

Treize caught him in a firm, heated embrace. "Hey... where are you going so fast?"

He was barefoot yet fully dressed in expensive jeans and a clingy black roll-neck that outlined his muscular body and set off the intense colours of his eyes and hair. Fire and water, sun and ice, roses and steel...

"You'll get your clothes soaked," Zechs mumbled, pushing against him.

Treize let go and grabbed a towel from the heated chrome rack by the vanity unit. Without another word, he handed it to Zechs and watched while the younger man dried himself, every movement awkward with selfconsciousness. Zechs did not dare showing his front to Treize, yet turning his back while he was trying to towel his legs...

He gave up and wrapped the unsoftened white terrycloth around his hips. As he straightened, his hand weaving through his knotted hair by instinct, he met Treize's gaze in the mirror – and almost staggered.

A blast of heat hit him from those blue eyes, fit to reduce him to ashes in an instant. Treize's lips were slightly parted and moist, his cheeks flushed; he seemed a little breathless, and yes, those damnably tight black jeans did not hide anything...

For a heartbeat they just stared at one another. Then Treize bit his lip and broke away, marching out without another word, his steps fading on the hallway to his room.

xxx 

In the dim silence of his apartment, Zechs took the coffee, balancing the mug with one hand, and slid into the steaming water. He groaned softly as the heat made his limbs relax and turned him into a slack heap of flesh and bones, his shoulders wrapped into soaking long tresses, only a slight shade darker than the dry, silvery strands on the top of his head. His office got too hot during the day and too cold during the night, when the central heating was powered down, and working a night in the foot-cold room always took its toll on his form. Along with being overtired, having had too much caffeine and eye strain from staring on the computer screen, it tended to leave him chilled him to the marrow and unable to get warm for some time.

He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes, already half-asleep in the lush embrace of the aroma-drenched water, and in the netherland between waking and dozing, he let his free hand drift down to his middle as he yielded to his dreams.

xxx 

"Hurt? He's hurt?"

"Please," Madame Khushrenada was linen-white as she reached out for the boy's hand and took it firmly, "please... he is alive. Recuperating."

Zechs closed his eyes and let her hold his hand. _Like Mother would have done... or I would have, with my sister..._

"It will be on the news," she said quietly, only a faint tremor in her voice betraying what she really felt – he had observed and thought he knew where Treize got his iron self-discipline.

And then they had to wait. With nothing but newsreels to inform them of Treize's state and progress. The news thinning, trickling, fading out after a few weeks, and no one able or willing to tell them anything...

One year. One year of agony – he had not needed this year to make his decision. Madame was not happy, but she knew... accepted it, with the same all-or-nothing attitude he would come to know so well later in her son. She did not spare him the detail, even got old Catalonia to talk to him at what came close to a family counsel. They all considered him part of the family, Treize had always been sure, and he had never wanted to believe it.

And yet... she had hoped he would delay his decision until Treize came back, or – no, he had not believed the other option. Not wanted to know, and chosen to ignore it. As the weeks passed by, they all realised that it had not been some simple injury. Weeks melting into months, stretching into eternities by the second, ticking away with the beat of the clock in the drawing room Treize so loved for its French windows that gave onto the park.

And then, on this day in late autumn, with sleety rain streaking down and the fire roaring on the hearth in that room, something drove him to look up from the book on Mobile Suit engineering – a vibration, a sense of foreboding, his subconscious picking up cues his focused mind had been missing. Or perhaps he had just been hoping so intensely that he had been dreaming. Again. How many times had he been sitting here, waiting, hoping, jumping at every rustling of logs in the fire, every whisper of ash and smoke?

Yet this time, as he strained his ears, he heard...

The outside door clap, the growling of a jeep engine, madame's steps flying down the stairs...

Her cry.  
His voice.

Soft. Reassuring. Slightly, ever so slightly pained. Tired. Laughing a little.

The door falling shut with a heavy thud, booted steps on the carpet in the hall, and the sounds melding into the breathing of the house, his own as he inhaled deeply to try and curb the tears that shot to his eyes, and failed miserably.

Letting leak out one salty bitter droplet that drew a shimmering path down a rounded, thirteen-year old cheek, trembled at his chin for a heartbeat before dripping down...

He caught it, lightning-fast, with his hand before the drop could burst on the white page with the diagram ofthe powerprofile of one of the most advanced suits at the time. Slowly, he closed his fingers over that single tear as though he was about to grind it to atoms. Only to leave bloodshot nailmarks on his palm.

The door to the room burst open before he could catch his breath.

He was in Treize's arms before he could protest, or yell, or fight, and then there was only the pong of antiseptic, cotton bandages, dank, mothballed uniformcloth and kerosene. Treize, wrapping him into a hard, bony embrace that almost crushed him into this body that felt alien... not at all likethe strong-muscled, toned limbs he had come to know, and itwas not Treize'sscenteither.

"You did not want to welcome me."

Yet it was his voice alright. Without accusation, without even questioning. Mellow. The slightest bit rough, scratchy like the wool of the borrowed uniform... his own would be softer, of fine cloth, and with metallic braids that would press coldly against skin. It would not have this medal attached to the broad lapel that lay flat against Treize's chest. Or the rank insignia of a colonel of the Alliance Air Force, Space Division.

Zechs pulled back, and Treize let him slip from the embrace, allowing him to appraise, take stock... doing the same, eyes clear and attentive as always. He was waxy pale, and could not hide it behind his smile that was a tad weary... wary as well as he allowed his friend to scrutinise him. Searching for visible signs of his injuries, and remaining tense as none were revealed to the intense gaze of steel-blue eyes.

"You... you are better." How bland. Zechs fidgeted, brushed back his hair that fell well below his shoulderblades, then stepped back to the table to close the book.

"I missed you."

Shoulders that were beginning to broaden into the shape of a young man, set stiffly. Another nervous toss of pale hair. "I missed you too." A mere whisper, hoarse and throaty, in Russian. "But legends are being written already about you. I am happy for you. I am happy you have healed, and that you are back with... back here."

xxx 

The cup toppled from its resting place on the edge of the tub to the tiled floor and shattered, even as Zechs got up in a rush of water and flying tresses, his body flushed, his face flecked crimson.

So this attempt at dreaming himself away ended as all of them did. He had not come. He had – disgustedly – touched himself, in a blatant attempt of willing, then rubbing away the urge for physical comfort, for relief and satisfaction. And he had failed, as always.

Because Treize was not here.  
Treize was dead.

He fell to his knees, cutting himself on the shards of porcelain, heedless of the blood that began to ooze freely from his injured skin, and curled up, pressing his folded arms to his stomach and dropping his chin to his chest, then to his knees.

Rocking, back and forth, sometimes helped... sliding into oblivion. Physical pain helped. Feeling the chill of water cooling on his goose-pimpled skin... anything, anything to make him stop thinking, anything at all... drink, perhaps, but he had tried to steer clear of the stuff since working on the Mars Terraforming Project. Too much, too young... _but we're not that young anymore, are we, Tre? We've lived many times over already._

_Time to die._

This keening wail... this choked sound that much resembled a sob... were they his own? The light of the vanity unit reflected in one of the larger shards, gleaming off the edge, dancing along the glassy point, razorsharp.

_I thought I could do this, Tre. I really did.  
Coward... I am no coward._

_Oh, but how it hurts... how it hurts to live... I want it to stop hurting so... you promised you'd be with me... always... you'd be waiting... and where are you now? Treize, where the hell are you?_

Trembling with the effort, he unfurled one arm and pressed his fist onto the floor, knuckles white, beginning to bleed as sharp fragments of china cut into skin and bone. He forced himself to breathe, raggedly, gasping at first, somewhere between sobs and choking, a little more evenly as he seized hold of scraps of his willpower. He reached out to clasp his fingers around the edge of the sink and slowly hoisted himself to his feet.

Steady now... steady... what was it Treize had taught him... rule number one, survive... retreat to fight another day... do anything, anything, just live...

_Treize, you bastard.  
__You double crossed me, after all – why did I even try chasing after your thoughts? I should have known better. I really should._

He dragged open his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. A haggard face, deeply shadowed, hair in a tangled, matted mess, when had he last bothered to use conditioner? Perhaps cutting it off would be a good substitute for killing... _no-no-no, don't fucking go there... but closure - would it help gaining that at least?_ Cutting off all those memories, oh how hateful, what a way to go, Zechs Marquise, former proud second of the greatest military genius ever... conceited idiot, brother, fool, friend, lover...

_Everything._

Zechs stared. Eyes red-rimmed... and what was this – he raised his hand, reluctantly, splayed his fingers and touched the glass. Beaded with condensation, the water running shiny tracks over the steamed-up glass.

His eyes widened.

His hand lifted off the glass and hovered hesitantly, before alighting on his own cheek, trailing his fingertips down hot, wet skin.

Tears?

He managed to pull away. He even got to the couch that faced the panorama window in the lounge.

And then something inside him cracked; he heard it tear and scream and crumble, and he pressed his palms hard against his ears as he fell and fell and fell...

xxx 

He had knocked on Treize's door when he had dressed in slacks and jumper and felt steady enough to face him without losing it.

"Come in," he heard the familiarvoice, muffled through thecarved wood.

The early winter evening had melted into a cold, clear night. The room was dark, but he could see Treize's silhouette outlined against the deep blueoblong of the window. A starspangled sky arched over the black mass of the forest and the paler blue plains of the park. Treize sat on the deep windowsill, looking outside and smoking.

It was a perplexing sight. Zechs wrinkled his nose as he carefully closed the door behind himself and crossed the room to join his friend. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Once in a while. Not a habit I would recommend."

"You... you changed while you were away." And after he had nearly died after the expedition to put down a rebellion in a far-flung colony. At seventeen, Treize had become the youngest officer ever to lead such a military intervention, and he had fulfilled his duty with panache and bravado. Even if it had nearly cost his life and he had spent over a year away to recuperate from his injuries.

"So did you." An elegant ring of smoke rose from Treize's mouth as he spoke against the frost-blossomed window pane.

"I... we were worried."

"I am sorry."

"You did not send word."

"It was all over the news. I thought that would be enough. I did not want to worry anyone more than necessary."

"More than... Treize, you don't believe this yourself, do you?"

A long silence followed until Zechs realised Treize would not speak. "I... there were rumours," he said, unable to quell the tinge of bitterness that crept into his tone. Rumours that Treize had fallen for the woman who took care of him, the daughter of a man called Barton. The Bartons had taken the dying young Alliance officer into their house to try and save his life, thereby endangering their own lives – supporting the Alliance was not popular on any of the colonies, let alone amid the bloody upheaval of a quelled insurrection...

"There will always be rumours," Treize said, the faintest edge to his voice. He got up and strode to his desk to snuff the cigarette in a small crystal ashtray.

Zechs swallowed, then got up as well. "Yes, of course." He made to walk to the door, but Treize seized his arm.

"If I wanted a woman to share my life, I could arrange that, don't you think? And my first choice would be Ann, not Miss Barton."

Zechs felt cold, and he tugged at his arm. "You... I don't blame you. I don't have that kind of body, I'll never be able to give you... to be like this for you. I am not angry."

Treize's grip grew harder. "Yes you are. You are angry and disappointed, you make your body smooth, you try and look like a woman, and you're hurting. It is called jealousy, my friend, and it tends to wrench around in your belly and roil in your guts until you are all tied into a knot and unable to get out of it."

Zechs gaped at him. "But how..."

"How do I know?" And suddenly, Treize's nose was almost touching his, and their breath mingled, lips touching none too gently – Zechs could taste Treize's words as much as he heard them, sharp and firm. "Do you think I'm made of ice? I want you. I cannot have you. I cannot show you off to the world and shout from the rooftops that I'm in love with you. Not like I want, not now, not-"

_Ever._

He broke off, and then he pressed a harsh kiss onto Zechs' lips. "Here," he murmured hotly, squeezing him in a close embrace. "Mine. Yours."

xxx 

"Zechs? Please open your eyes. Please."

The sight of a man with a long reddish brown braid... a very young man... not a child though, eyes too old, too knowing, but he knelt next to a messy pile of what looked like schoolbooks... no, here, 'Advanced MS Engineering', 'Algorithms and Circuits', 'The Effect of Torque Modification on the Combat Behaviour of...' Not quite schoolbooks, then, and this man, this youth...

"Zechs?" Wide, impossibly large eyes the colour of dusk. A pinched, freckled face with a wide mouth, unsmiling now, but the smile was there, implied, somehow missing from this young face that was drawn with apprehension. "Zechs, man, I know you'll hate my guts, just don't hit me, right?"

Babbling. Max-

Duo Maxwell backed off against the door in a flash – faster than Zechs could jump up because he was still unsteady and stiff from having passed out on the cold, hard floor of his apartment, carpet notwithstanding.

"Get OUT!"

"Your fuckin' door was open!" Maxwell gripped the doorknob as if to prove it. "And I want my books!"

"You got nothing to do here! I'll call security, and I'll report you breaking into my apartment!"

"I didn't, the friggin' surveillance tapes will show that, man, don't the fuck freak out on me now – you were out cold, shakin' like hell, and I was rattlin' you awake, is all!"

"I did not ASK for that! Go AWAY, now!" He only realised he was groping for the shoulderholster with his personal weapon when Maxwell dashed from the apartment. Braid whipping wildly, a burst of expletives that sounded oddly incongruous from his pretty mouth, and he was gone in a mad flurry of footsteps down the corridor, leaving the books behind.

Zechs stared at the closed door for a moment, before he went to kick it, just to make sure, and then realised he did not wear his holster, or anything at all for that matter. "Shit. I'm so damn out of it," he mumbled to himself, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his brow.

xxx 

"A high security complex," Zechs said coldly to Une, who had come to see him at his office – officially shared with Lucy, but she was working in the field most of the time. "Just great. And how come that someone like that braided idiot can just walk in there?"

"He lives there." She tapped onto the stack of textbooks wedged under her arm. "I will forward these to him."

Zechs opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it shut and clenched his jaws. It made sense, in a way, at least from Une's position. She had decided to keep those five experiments under control; it was logical to house them in a secure place and keep them under control...

"Your sister was concerned for your personal safety," Une said quietly, "and I agree with her."

He swallowed hard, then slumped a little in his seat at the computer. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, before looking up at her again and shaking his head. "I am sorry. I really am, but I think it's not working."

Une, standing calm and poised as always by the door, smiled wanly. "You are doing fine, considering. Just fine."

He met her eyes, pale blue searching the darkness, the utter stillness that had settled there since Treize's death, and a wave of pain and shame washed over him. "Une, I-"

"I understand. We are all... still..." She broke off, tugging slowly at her gloves, an absentminded gesture even as her gaze strayed beyond him to the window. "It is hard to grasp, isn't it? You'd expect him to turn a corner any moment now, and surprise us all back to life... he used to be good for surprises..."

And suddenly, she turned away sharply, reaching for the handle of the door. He was up and with her before she could set a foot outside, and just pulled her close. A quick, hard, embrace, a soldier hugging his comrade in arms for a heartbeat, no longer, before he let her go and stepped back, heart pounding, eyes narrow and bright with pain. "I'll be good. I promise. No surprises here."

She straightened her uniform jacket and nodded briefly. "Yes, Colonel. Thank you." Saying his OZ title with deliberate clarity, allowing a hint of softness into her voice. "It is good... to have old friends close. The few of us that made it."

And it occurred to him just how lonely she must be, the weight Treize had thrust upon her shoulders without second thought, without mercy, the full, crushing burden of his trust... _so much work to do, and so few of us to get it done.. is this what he meant all along? That he'd be with me, with us? To hell with him... why can't I just settle for this?_

"It is a nice day," she said quietly, with another wistful glance at the window, and then – with a smile and a sigh – she opened the door to leave. "You should close down and take the afternoon off. It's no use to anyone if you wear yourself out more than necessary." She paused, then, "He still needs you. He always needed you, more than anything." Another smile, before she crossed the threshold and let the door click shut behind her. Zechs listened to her booted steps fading along the corridor, and then looked at the window. _She's right... a beautiful day, all blue skies and sunshine... do we even deserve this?_

He stared back at the screen – columns of data, schemata, cut-away models, messages regarding the Mars project, all blurring into a fuzzy mass of colours and buzzing sounds. No, he had enough, especially after last night.

He began to touch screen areas to close down the terminal. Working since five in the morning, what madness, Treize would scold... and then do worse, always harder on himself than on anyone else. How often had he fallen asleep at Treize's desk, head on his folded arms, while the older man worked on apparently unfazed, bathed in the faintly luminescent colours of the computer screens surrounding them? Or –Zechs shrugged into his ankle-long uniform coat – finding himself in Treize's bed, or on his couch, where Treize would tuck him in with blankets or his cloak, whatever was at hand to make him comfortable,only forTreize to return to his relentless schedule.

Perhaps he could telephone Relena. Itfelt good to hear her voice, confident and bright with hope, and see her smiling face on the videocom. She was always so grateful for every call from him, and he felt utterly undeserving of her affection.

_Treize recognised her for what she is... for me, she still is my little sister whom I failed miserably._

"Six-year old children," Treize had told him once, in this quiet, sure tone that left no room for doubts, "do not defend their country. Six-year old children have no country but a sandpit and a pile of toys if they are lucky."

Something wrenched in his chest hard enough to make him gasp and falter, and he had to lean against the edge of his desk for a moment or two to collect himself. A swath of sunlight streamed through the window, streaked with dust, myriads of tiny specks dancing in the pale golden beam.

_Like stars..._

He drew a deep breath and gathered himself to check over his computer system once more to make sure it was properly shut down; he stacked his paperfiles and locked them neatly in a small wall-safe, and with a last probing glance over his office, he turned to leave.

Buttoning up his coat on his way, formally returning the respectful salutes of junior officers that happened to cross his path, ignoring their gazes and whispers... nothing new here, he was used to talk behind his back, to rumours and worse.

"Envy, my friend, and jealousy are nothing to be sniffed at," Treizehad lectured him once, not longafter he hadenlisted at the Academy. "Strong passions make powerful enemies."

Zechs stepped out of the dimnessand stale air of the whitewashed corridors, and squinted against the light. Winter had taken a break. Birdsong... the park re-emerging inmottled autumn colours, a few patches of melting snow layering in the shadows. Some of the trees stood bare and black, themeadows were a muddy carpet of green and yellow, dotted with copper and russet. The air smelled heavy of damp soil and rotting leaves, laced with the pong of exhaust fumes and diesel.

_Quite the prophet, Tre,_Zechs thought with cold bitterness, _only that it was love, not envy... no, don't go there. The sun is shining, the sky is blue... damn cold though, even though almost allthe snow has melted... unlike home... Russia... I should check how things are there, whether they've stored the harvest properly, and how the prices are on grain... if we have any spare grain to sell... and whether they have thought of clearing the access roads of snow... usually, they do things just fine, but Treize would always make his presence known. Better to keep things flowing than to clear an obstruction..._

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and began to walk, shunning the shortest way to his apartment block that suddenly seemed to have the oppressive air of a prison. Instead, he chose a long detour over the elaborate, winding gravel pathways that wove between hedges and old trees – dark maple brushed with the remnants of fiery golden autumn glory, brooding ivy, sparsely leaved blood red vine draped over pale silver beech branches.

_Blood on silver._ He shivered. _No good to ring Relena now, she'll catch my mood and worry, better perhaps to walk a bit longer... or go to the apartment and get some more sleep – if I only could sleep, dammit._

And suddenly, he stopped dead at the edge of the small clearing around the lake in the centre of the park.

He had not expected...

The lonely whistling of a blackbird, the damp smells of autumn yielding to early winter, all faded away until he stood in utter stillness, unmoving as not tostoke the fresh blaze of pain that raged inside his chest, his mind... mauling his heart with an iron fist until he could barely breathe. He should have known. He should have been ready. But he had preferred to ignore the possibility, and now, he was utterly unprepared for...

THEM.

Wufei, neat in his Preventer uniform, was sitting on a bench by the small lake in the centre of the park, and by his feet in the grass lay young Maxwell, clad in his customary black shirt and jeans, the Preventer jacket sloppily thrown over his shoulders. He was wriggling on his back and flailing his bony arms as he tried to catch a few lone fluffs of reed seed, sailing belatedly on the chill breeze. Trowa and Quatre – one in jeans and jumper, the other one in an impeccable grey suit and tie – sat close to one another next to Wufei.And Heero Yuy, in full, neatly pressed, correctly buttoned uniform, crouched crossleggedly in the grass, his hands in Maxwell's hair, absentmindedly caressing the lad's impossible braid even as he frowned at his antics.

Zechs stood under one of the old trees, dampness dripping in soft, heavy drops from the near-bare branches and soaking his hair and face. For a moment, he stared, unable to move or breathe, before the rising wave of agony crested and crashed over him – loathing so intense it washed away anything else, blinding anger, bileful, acrid, all-consuming, the bitterness of loss and defeat unabashed by time and distance. And he realised he had to leave this place or become guilty of losing it in a way that would make Treize look positively tame.

As he began to turn, Maxwell called out to him.

Zechs had not known that he could draw on reserves of strength unknown to him so far... to pull himself away and forward, as if plunging his gundam into battle, with the grim determination and white-hot hatred of a man about to die. Willing himself to stride on, hoping they would get the message and leave him be, but hasty steps followed him, swift feet crunching on the gravel, until Maxwell was by his side, and then before him, braid swinging wildly, spidery hands outstretched as if to stop him. Eyes wide and filled...

Filled with darkness.  
Something that could have been tears.  
And so much pain, he almost, almost recognised his own...

The fake smile too wide, too perky. A teethy grimace that did nothing to brighten those dusky eyes. "Hey... hey, Zechs," Maxwell spluttered, unsure about which name to use. "Thanks for returning my books. You... we heard you're working here..."

Zechs did not reply, or stop walking. Maxwell scampered along, undeterred, with a persistency little short of despair. "We wondered... yanno, we meet sometimes. We and a few other folk who've been through the same, and-"

"Back off," Zechs snarled without looking at him. Staring ahead at the apartment block as though it would provide sanctuary, the shore he needed to reach before that black wave could drown him.

Maxwell grabbed his arm, thin fingers drilling surprisingly hard into his tensing muscles, and before he could lash out, the young man lifted his free arm as if to protect his face. "We all hurt," he yelped, and yes, his eyes were swimming and his smile harsh, those black bags under his eyes made him look withered like a child with an old man's face.

Hands clenching, Zechs froze, head thrust forward and lowered so that his hair hid most of his face. For a moment, they stayed like that. He heard the others come closer, of course, they had always been hunting as a pack, they would try to back up their team mate; nothing had changed. As though they were still at war.

"You know nothing about hurt," he breathed, his voice flat.

"How dare you?" Maxwell flung at him, tugging at his arm for emphasis. "You think you're alone? You're an asshole, you know that?"

Zechstore free then, hair flying,and turned to face them, scanning their faces, all touched by darkness: Maxwell took a cautious step back, his expression a landscape of pain, Barton's carefully blank, Winner's curious and wounded beneath his soft smile; Yuy glaring back with unconcealed hostility, and Chang... dark almond eyes wide, looking shocked and hardly with it.

Zechs lockedgaze with him. Facing the young man who had taken Treize's life, or at the very least served as the instrument for his suicide... it was well beyond Zechs' capability of clemency to let go of the moment. He straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders, drawing a kind of unhappy satisfaction from seeing Chang flinch the slightest bit. "You want me to make my peace with you?"Zechs paused, schooling his voice into frosty calm. "You expect too much of me. I came here to work, not to make peace." _Because I am a soldier, and my business is death... _"I am not like Treize. I am not noble, or magnanimous. I am a selfish man whose life you took away because you were stupid and too young to be in that war, and way too young to have any forgiveness in your heart. Don't expect any from me now, or ever. My wounds don't heal. My hatred be with you."

"You bastard," Yuy said flatly, without missing a beat, his hand settling on Maxwell's shoulder - possessively? For comfort? Zechs did not want to think about it.

He glanced at Yuy, daring him. "You are welcome. I still owe you another duel. I am prepared to pay my debt to you at any time. Just tell me when it is convenient to you."

"You owe nothing," young Winner said softly. "You saved Heero."

Zechs almost laughed. SYSTEM SILENCE, Treize had commanded, and Zero had abandoned him in the middle of the battle... at its pinnacle,when he could have wiped out Yuy's gundam. Damn Treize and his plans, they all fitted together rather well now, did they not... Yuy and Relena, Lucy and himself... He shook his head, snorting softly. "No, Treize saved him. Treize shut me down, or I would have finished what I started." He stepped back. "I hate unfinished business."

"Zechs!" Maxwell yelled.

"Leave him," Trowa said coolly. "He's beyond help."

"I can help myself," Zechs said, his gaze homing in on Yuy's dark stare once more. "Unlike you. You're just a bunch of kids turned guerillas. Failed experiments. Mercenaries. Do you even know the definition for that? Flotsam of war. Killers. You know nothing else, you haven't learned anything else, yet you destroyed everything I ever had. You wiped out honour, beauty and passion such as you will never comprehend. You defeated ideals and murdered dreams. You brought down the man who saved Earth." He paused a little, allowing a bitter smile to settle on his lips, before he said, barely above his breath, "Congratulations, gentlemen. You won."

A familiar surge.  
A welcome chill.  
A sharp whine, rising until it filled every sense, every fibre of his being.

And he knew if they challenged him now, he would kill, for within him, Zero was reawakening, and he let it pour into his mind, along with the piercing headaches and floods of data too much to process for an ordinary brain.

He saw them recoil... _good._ And as he tore away from their accusing, sad, angry eyes and fled with long, crisp strides down the path of gravel and leaves, he had to keep blinking away what had to besome sudden rain. Cold and bitter, burning in his eyes.

For above him, the blue sky was weeping.

xxx 

"You can live with it," Treize said quietly, his hand lacing through long silver tresses, "but you cannot undo it."

"I've made my decision." Zechs settled more comfortably against the older youth's legs, and Treize, sitting behind him on his bed, opened to him and cradled him between his thighs. Zechs leaned back against the warm solidity of Treize's body and closed his eyes. "I like it when you do this."

Treize put his lips to the top of the blond head and snuck his arms round Zechs' shoulders. A smile lingered in his voice when he said, "I like touching you. I like making you feel good. It is good to know my hands can do this."

"Instead of-"

"Yes."

_Killing. Hurting. Planning murder. He did not like to hear it. He never liked to hear it spelled out so bluntly, for all his cool... even later, when he would face it, it always made his eyes narrow that tiny bit; he would flinch even if no one but I could see..._

The room was dark, warm, embers still glowing on the hearth beneath a layer of ash. It smelled faintly of charcoal and wood, a little of floorwax, and when Zechs turned his head and buried his nose in Treize's soft jumper, the aroma of roses filled his senses. Treize lay very still then, and when Zechs shifted again to look up and ask whether something was bothering him, he froze.

He knew exactly what was pressing into his back. He knew why Treize was holding his breath in a show of self-control that should have been well beyond the capability of any ordinary eighteen-year old. _But then, he never was ordinary..._

A sudden rush of wildly mixed emotions took him under – he was not prepared for the hot wave of most intense hunger, curiosity, and apprehension, now that what he had been longing for seemed so very much within his reach. A breathless pause, then Zechs pressed up a little, cautiously rubbing his back against Treize's middle, and could not help a tiny smile as Treize let out a sharp hiss. "Please..."

"What, Tre?"

His world took a hefty spin, and in an instant he found himself on his back, with Treize between his legs and smiling down at him,breathing in tight little puffs. Grinding softly against his groin, Treize's body – no longer that of a boy, but already filled out and muscular like that of a young man – weighed him down into the firm mattress. They stared at one another, Zechs' eyes widening even as a flush of pink began to fan from his cheeks over his neck and chest... at the lust glittering in his friend's gaze, the reddening face, those flawless white teeth biting down hard onfull lips.

"I..." Treize, never lost for words, faltered, and Zechs could feel him tremble and freezewith the effort not to move, to stay with hiselbows locked, hips slightly tilted into Zechs' groin. An eternity... burning, mind-melting...

Yet when Zechs reached up to draw him close, Treize sat back on his haunches and hauled him up too, almost violently yanking him into a hard, shaky embrace, fine hands tangling in swathes of white-blond that shimmered in the vague light of the snow-bound winter night. "No," he whispered roughly. "Not now. Not yet, Miliusha."

Zechs went utterly still against him. His lips touching the life-pulse at Treize's neck, tasting the flavour of his skin – clean, slightly salty, a touch of steel, ah, and roses... the faint sweetness mingling strangely with the aroma of man. A maddening melee. "I want you."

"Yes. I know." A heatedkiss to the side of his neck, to his pulse. A slight nipping of teeth, the soothing flick of Treize's tongue. "But you... you might regret it. No, shhh. We have time. We can wait, can we not?" As though reassuring himself of his self-control...

"Time?" Zechs pushed back a little; there was enough yielding in Treize's grip to allow him to shift away, see his face, eyes bright with longing, lips parted, smiling. "You nearly died!"

Treize's hands slid from his back to his shoulders, over his arms and began to knead gently, easing out tension and rising anger before they could knot up and burn him. "I did not die."

"But..." Zechs trailed off. Let his head fall forward to rest his brow against Treize's shoulder, body taut and singing with desire. _Not this time. _

"I am a soldier." Another kiss to his head, hands sliding back to massage his shoulderblades, the touch electrifying, sending fresh streams of fire through his limbs. "My business is war. Soldiers die in wars." _Not yet..._

"You could become something else."

Treize hugged him closer again. "I am afraid I cannot. I was raised to be what I am. Our privileges come at a cost." He gathered Zechs' hair in a loose ponytail to see his face, but Zechs hid, turning away, offering hissemiprofile. His cheek and ear pressed against Treize's chest, he staredinto the vague darkness that filled Treize's room. Their room. Treize kept caressing his hair, and Zechs heard regret in his voice as he softly added, "Traditions have their drawbacks, my friend."

Zechs listened to his even, level voice, vibrating deep inside, yet light, almost gentle had it not been for an edge, a certain sobering chill... "You have no choice?"

"I had none from the day my father died and left me as his only son."

Even through thehaze in his mind, Zechs felt the edge of bitterness so well hidden beneath the smooth voice, and it helped him to come to his senses. With the fire almost gone, blooms of ice began to grow from the edges of the tall window. Glittering blossoms, shimmering vines ensnaring the small bars that divided the smooth panes, droplets of condensation pearling at the tips of white petals and crystal leaves. The heat drained from his flushed skin, and shivers began to rundown his body, until Treize drew him up a little and gathered the duvet to drape around Zechs' shoulders. "Here, I wouldn't want you to catch another cold... though it was amusing, was it not?"

"Don't try and sideline me. I was sick, not amused."

Treize kissed his brow. "I am sorry. Would you want to sleep now?"

"I'm not tired." He pondered for a moment, before drawing a deep, slow breath. "Will you ever be anything else than a soldier?"

Reluctantly, Treize shook his head. "I do not believe..." He trailed off, and Zechs could feel him shift, his want still evident but muted, tempered by something he did not understand.

_Foreboding. I was blind then... he wanted to live yet he knew. Even though he would not admit it, not even to himself... knew that he would not have enough time in his life... not enough time for us, for loving, for living beyond this great war of his... _

Treize rested his chin on the blond head of his friend, cradling him safely, hands gently rubbing Zechs' chest. "I have no other option," he said into the sudden stillness, and he sounded uncharacteristically sullen.

Zechs let himself sag against the familiar body. "Then... then I must be a soldier too."

Treize's hands stilled and grew heavy, then his fingers entwined just above Zechs' heart. A small, protective gesture, an attempt to shield him... _Too late._ ForZechs had grown up long ago, during that fire-torn night that blasted away his childhood in a hailstorm of destruction and murder. Treize touched his lips to Zechs' hair. "You do have choices, Miliusha. And your traditions-"

"Died with my family."

Treize clasped him harder, his breathing harsh, his heart thudding, theirbodies close, melting into one another, one rhythm. _Never apart._ _Always, always as one..._ "Miliusha... Milushka... please... I never saw you as a soldier." **2**

"What did you see in me, then?"

A long pause, the clasp of hands coming undone, a thumb trailing over Zechs' cheek."Someone beautiful," Treize said at last, "doing beautiful things... poetry, painting, teaching..."

Zechs shook his head. "How could I?"

"What?"

"Do these things, while waiting for some newsreel to tell us-" He broke off, the last words almost choking him. Abruptly, he broke the embrace and sat up stiffly, his back to Treize, long legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, the soles of his bare feet brushing the floor. "It was horrible to wait. I can't do this again."

"But Miliusha..." In spite of his quiet voice, Treize sounded alarmed. Zechs felt the mattress dip behind him as Treize moved to kneel behind him, and a moment later, Treize's arms settled round his waist, his thighs to either side of Zechs' hips. Pressing against hisbuttocks firmly.

Fingers, hardened through drill and training, linking above his groin. Pressing over his still rather prominent arousal, cupping him, rubbing ever so slightly, making him a little wet down there.He suppressed the urge to thrust and bit back a groan. "I applied to the Academy," he said instead to the frost-laced window.

He could feel Treize jump, no more than a tiny motion, swiftly controlled, before lapsing a little against Zechs' back. A long, dark silence followed. They did not move, and even time seemed to have stilled, until Treize said quietly, "When?"

"This summer. For the new intake next term." He half-turned to catch Treize's gaze, shaded by long copper lashes. "Never... I will never again be useless. I will never again just have to look on..." He grasped Treize's wrists firmly, tugging them up and pressing them against his belly. "I won't disappoint you, I swear."

Treize dipped his head and rested his face in the crook of his Zechs' neck. "I know."

_So certain, with no room for doubt..._ A road of no return, and he had hurtled along without another glance back... yet for once, Treize had sounded as if the fight had been taken clean out of him. It had shocked Zechs enough to dampen his passion, and they had spent the rest of that night curled up into one another, Zechs holding onwith something approaching despairto a very unresponsive and oddly distracted Treize.

They did not talk about it again until the end of Treize's leave. When the invitation for the entrance exams came with the post, Zechs knew that Treize would make sure he was accepted at the Academy. Even though the intervention was needless, for Zechs had prepared well, and the instructors realised they had struck gold when the scores of his entry exam surpassed even those of their previous star pupil... Treize himself.

Treize knew the results before the had been announced. He rang Zechs at the airport where the young man was waiting for his plane back to Moscow, and congratulated him in sparse words. Even though the tone of his voice was carefully controlled, Zechs could tell that Treize was proud. He was apprehensive. He was cranky. Yet the decisionhad beenmade, and he was there to support, demand, and push...

_Never fond of looking back and waste time on regrets, were we, Tre?  
__Instead, you were pushing mebeyond limits, to things I never even dared dream to achieve...  
__Foryou had no limits. I did._

Later that year, when Zechs arrived at the Academy, he found that although he had believed to know Treize, there was a side to him Zechs had yet to learn. For when Treize left the secluded microcosm of the estate to enter the world at large, he very consciously abandoned what Zechs had come to love.

To become freshly promoted Colonel Khushrenada, newly in charge of the Alliance Air Force, Space Division Special Units. The Specials, destined to behis trump card in his bid tomake his outrageously ambitious dreams come true.

It came as a shock to Zechs to realise thatto him,Colonel Khushrenada was a stranger. Fine-mannered, polite, confident and obliging on the smooth parquet of politics; ruthless and unforgiving when it suited him; courageous where it mattered, and above all...

A man whose only love was the game he was playing.

xxx 

Zechs was too much of a professional soldier not to do his research. So, in the shape of their files, he revisited his enemies, those young men barely grown out of boyhood – Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Trowa Barton and Quatre Winner. He spent time poring over their images. _By rights, they should all still be sweating over school exams._ Instead, they knew how to fly complicated war craft, use machinery whose only purpose was to maim and kill, and how to best evade or destroy an enemy. Not that they had been studying war, like him...

_The art of war... it is no art, really, _Treize had told him once, and he vividly recalled the slight edge of disgust in Treize's blue gaze. _It is a science. A way of conducting business when diplomacy fails to get usthe resultwe want. An analysis of weaknesses and wiles – to serve only one purpose: how to most efficiently slaughter those we are asked to class as enemies. How to plunder, subdue and constrain them, in order that the ones unlucky enough to survive may serve as slaves to those whopillage their homes._ And at Zechs' shocked gaze, he smiled wanly. _We study bloody murder, my friend._

Zechs slid out of his memory, back to those files. He preferred to think of those young menas numbers: pilots zero-one, zero-two, three, and four... no more than parts of their expensive machinery of destruction, enhanced, altered beyond repair, dehumanised, dangerous... but ultimately disposable.

_Unlike me? I still have my connections, if I choose to use them. They have nothing. They are nothing. Nobodies._

He had spent time conducting his own observations, and, unsurprised,found those young men different now than in the heat of battle: Heero, afraid of feeling anything; Duo, incapable of living without his jester's mask, Trowa too still for someone of his age, and Quatre almost buckling under the sudden burden ofa large chunk of a corporate empire, unsure whether he was supposed to enjoy or hate it. They were all struggling, uprooted,belonging nowhere, and totally unprepared for something approaching a normal life.

And then there was Chang.  
Zero-five.

The number that had murdered Treize.

The guerilla fighter who served to prolong the conflict, refused to surrender his weapons, and had been styled a peace hero. While Treize who had been striving for peace, had become the symbol of war instead.

The irony was too bitter to be funny.

Zechs found he could not look at the images any longer. He had not felt Zero in his mind for a long time, and it had surprised him to realise it was still there. Of course, the doctors – the few that had been sworn to secrecy on the project – had told him the system would remain rooted in his subconscious, latent, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. They had been at a loss to tell him what would happen to him if it did. They had analysed him back and forth, until he thought he could take no more, yet he had tried to be disciplined and give them something to work with – this had been Treize's gift, after all, and Treize never gave things without strings.

_Hate, love, compassion... always, always,for a reason, a meaning, a purpose, sometimes so farflung as to be obscure, to become apparent like some revelation sometime later... but sometimes, dawn is so damn far away, I cannot see a thing. _

In the end, they were able to compile a list of likely triggers. Yuy was one of them.

_No silver lining on the horizon this time, Tre..._

Zechs massaged his throbbing temples. Of course,Yuy carried the same burden. Zero forever. _And Christmas drawing closer again._ He rubbed his temples. The flashes of the system in his mind had become more frequent – bursts of pain and light, avalanches of data and scenarios ripped from his everyday routine, heightened into scenarios, strategies, tactical manoeuvres...

_Like how to position my pencil so it is accessible with the least expense of energy on my part... I'm dreadingthe day itsuggeststhe optimum wayto use the pencil as a stabbing weapon... it would be laughable if it weren't so dangerous, the edge hairtrigger-fine sometimes. Those painkillers don't work, and the sedatives are plain bull... wonder whether Yuy's having the same issues..._

He did not expect improvements before the year had turned. Things always worsened around Christmas, and drowning himself in work had not helped one bit. And as every year, he had reached the point of simply yielding and letting it roll over him. Zechs watched the screen darken, then sagged slightly in his chair and let his head sink to his chest to allow the system to flood his senses...

Plunging him back into his own personal hell, when he was dying over and over again in this silent blaze of fire that obliterated everything that had been his life.

_Everything._

xxx 

"Didn't you see his face?"Yuy growled at Maxwell, who sat mannerly at the table in the cafeteria and sipped his coffee from a chipped Preventer issue mug.

"I did."

Yuyshook his head. "Man, baka, he's a lost cause."

His partnersaid nothing.Yuy looked slightly worried. "Duo!"

"Yes."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I did,"Maxwell repeated, keeping his eyes on his mug and his bony hands that cradled it. "You used to tell me the same."

"Same what?"

"That I was a lost cause."

Yuyrolled his eyes. "That's different."

"Dunno. It sure won't help that you told him you're gonna kill him, and Trowa dogging his every step. And I don't need a bodyguard either, yanno. Perhaps you should watch Wu instead, Zechs seems intent on murdering him sometime soon."

"He won't dare."

"You're damn sure of that,"Maxwell bit out, andYuy suddenly jumped up and gave his chair a good kick.

"Man, Maxwell, if you wanna defend that asshole, don't start with me," he snapped, "after all he's done."

"He let you live."

AndYuy froze. "Let me-"

"If he'd had the same enhancements as you, he'd killed you in that battle beforehis machine shut down. Even I could tell. He didn't, shouldn't that count for something?"Maxwell lifted his gaze and bored it into that of his partner. "Well, perhaps not. We better get back to work, right?"

"He saidthe generalshut his machine down."

"Yeah, but he never tried to go after you again. He mended your machine. I think he meant to offer you a fair chance. And Khushrenada knew Zechs would regret it if he let him finish you off."

"I don't see your point."Yuy got up, looking the slightest bit uncomfortable, and glanced at his watch. "Anyway, don't be late; you got class, and I remember you groaning about physics, so don't miss it, baka. I'll see you later."

"Yeah, later,"Maxwell groused. "And don'tcall me that."

Yuy leaned over to quickly ruffle his partner's bangs. "Sorry. Habit."

"Snap out of it." The retort was softened by the glint of a smile though, and Yuy did not press on but laughed, waved, and left.

Maxwell drew up his legs, feet resting on the edge of the plastic chair, and hugged his knees, a thoughtful expression on his face. He could have done with help on his schoolwork, doing pages of calculations after a full day's work as a Preventer vehicle mechanic did not sit well with his brain, and time was tight because he had set himself a rather amibtious goal.

He stared blankly at his mug as if he could extract an answer from the coffe ground,and frowned. An idea wormed its way through his mind, and hepondered, allowing his thoughts to run away and analyse what had to be the craziest plan ever conceived by his way-too lively fantasy...

xxx 

"I am coming back to Earth for Christmas," Lucy said to Zechs over the videophone. She smiled, a bit wistful. "I'll have to change shuttle, and then get a plane from the space port to your place... You look tired. You always look so tired."

He put his hand flat on the screen, and she placed her hand against his. "I'll collect you from the airport," he said quietly. "Relena will be pleased. Oh, and I am, of course."

"Always polite, aren't we?" she replied softly. Her tone held noaccusation.

He swallowed a sigh. _No point arguing here._ "I'll see you soon."

xxx 

He was travelling through the cold winter night, snow melting in the city sky and coming down as rain, down the light-flooded, gleaming road to the airport... raindrops bursting on the windshield of the Preventer jeep, the schedule of flights in his jeans pocket...

An eternity ago, it had been the letter of acceptance rustling in the chest pocket of his coat until he took the garment off and tossed it onto the back seat of Treize's jeep, unaware of the effect this had on his friend. The letter had arrived in the mail, Treize had followed by plane to make sure he could personally escort his friend to the Academy.

"You drive," Treize had told him, and smiled a little at his startled face.

"I'm not old enough to have a licence," Zechs had replied nervously.

"You're old enough to become a soldier, and some rules really make no sense. You are allowed, no, obliged to break those. Come now, no one's going to catch us here, in the middle of nowhere, on our own land. Besides, I know that you have practiced. Nothing remains secret hereabouts."

_Treize always seemed to know of everything that was going on around him..._

Zechs had blushed fiercely, and without another word grabbed the ignition keys. Itwas a bit of a fumble, a jerky start, melting into a rather smooth journey. Treizesmiled, a hint of pride in his gaze that had reassured Zechs.

Treize, clad in his walking-out dress **3**, leaned back in the passenger seat of the jeep while Zechs drove in silence. Treize watched him – the focused gaze, the expression of utter concentration on his face, the softness of youth apparent in the slight sulk, the drawn brows, full lips, gently rounded cheeks. Zechs had pulled his hair back in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and wore a plain grey rollneck jumper and black denims over sturdy black boots. Tight jeans, the jumper snug and closefitting, outlining Zechs' broadening shoulders and trim stomach...

Treize pressed himself firmly into his seat. "I will be your instructor on parts of your programme."

Zechs nodded slightly. "I know."

Treize tried to stretch out his legs and swore under his breath when, for yet another time, his knees hit the dashboard. Resignedly, he shifted back a little. "These damn seats..."

"Aren't you supposed to get used to them? Toughen up, that sort of thing?" A click of amusement in the still youthfully bright voice, then a cough to cover up the slight squeak and drop. Zechs' voice had begun to break, and he hated it. Treize smiled, then tried to accommodate his legs again.

"To some things you will never get used," he commented, allowing his tone to slip slightly – _grouching,_ Zechs thought, _he can grouch?_ He laughed, Treize scowled, and then joined in, his hand quickly settling on his friend's thigh. Zechs gasped and jerked the steering wheel, and they werejostled against one another when the vehicle veered and then steadied again as Zechs managed to get it back on track.

Treize turned to look out of the window. His shoulders were set rigid and shaking slightly.

Zechs shot him a glare. "What's so funny?"

Treize covered his eyes with one hand, the other one still resting... no,occupied withkneading Zechs' thigh... creeping higher... "Is it this bad? I had no idea... really..." Hisvoice husky, almost sultry.

"Tre!"

Treize laughed outright, tilting back his head. His hand kept busy. Zechs felt sweat beading on his upper lip as he tried to concentrate on the road... "You are distracting me," he gritted out.

"Oh?" Treize quickly leaned against him, his lips touching the his friend's ear hotly as he murmured, only just above the noise of the engine, "Pull over." His hand landing squarely in Zechs' lap, cupping him firmly.

It was allZechs could do. "But... god, Tre... the plane..."

"Will wait." Treize's fingers nimbly unbuttoned the waistband of Zechs' pants. "It's my plane, at my disposal... subject..." – his hand slipped into the gaping fly – "to my whims..."

The engine cut out. Zechs threw back his head and sagged deeper in his seat, spreading his thighs that were shaking with thetension andburnstoked in his body by Treize's hand and kisses. To his lips, his eyes, his jaw and neck. Hot, wet, skilful, tender... incredibly tender, belying the passionate touch down between his legs that quickly, efficientlyblasted him to oblivion.

A silent explosion, white fire spreading in utter stillness until it filled everything around him... his body taut as a string, lifting off his seat as the blast ripped through him, tore into his guts, contracting his lungs in a cry that never left his throat, mouth wide open, unable to draw breath, lust and agony and tears cold on his burning skin... sinking back, leaden and deadyet light as a feather, settling in the solid safety of hard, protective arms... solace... grief so startlingly profound and unexplainable, even then... emptiness and loss and the space-chill of being alone...

When he re-surfaced, Treize held him in a tight, firm embrace, pressing him close almost frantically, his broad body wracked by slight tremors. "Miliusha? Milushka... liubov, pozhaluista, ya tak zhal... **4** I am sorry, I am so sorry... please... I should not have... please forgive me..."

Struggling to regain a semblance of composure, his face buried in the crook of Treize's neck, Zechs made a small, inarticulate noise, before he shoved against his friend in an attempt to disentangle himself. "Let... me drive," he groaned breathlessly, his fingers digging into Treize's upper arms.

Treize's muscles bunched as he held on tighter. "Shush." Zechs felt him shift, then the touch of something soft and warm down there – Treize cleaning him up gently, no doubt with one of his neatly ironed, spotless cotton hankies which he would then stuff intoa pocketin his uniform trousers for later washing. It was still around them, the darkness almost complete on this stretch of the road that led through the forest.

"What about you?" Zechs managed.

Treize, still panting softly, kissed his cheek through mussed strands of silver. "Shhh... listen..." To the breathing of the woods, the whisper of the breeze in countless leaves, the sigh of a star...

_Why do I want to cry_?

"Because," Treize murmured, and Zechs realised with a start that he had spoken the words aloud, "something in our lives is coming to an end." His tone was quiet, though still somewhat shaken, and for once, full of sorrow that he was unable and perhaps unwillingto hide.

"But Tre, it hasn't even started yet."

Treize made no reply. Zechs pushed once more, and this time, Treize let go of himand sat back, turning away to stare into the darkness outside. He remained thusevenas Zechs straightened out his clothes, wiped a few loose strands of hair from his brow, and re-started the engine.

They drove through the cold night, all shadows and darkness, barely brightened by the pale orange gloom of the cabin light before the rear-view mirror. The pong of diesel and dank clothes, boot polish and mud filled the jeep, laced with the faint, sharp smell of steel and gun oil. Zechs felt wrought up, oddly sensitised, and very much on edge, and he longed to say something to Treize who seemed miles away.

"When did you know?" Zechs asked after some time, when the silence began to press, and the first shine of white lights from the airstrip illuminated the cold blackness. Before long, they wold have no more time for questions...

Treize did not stir, the light washing over his smoothly shaven, firm semi-profile. "That I liked you... that way?" he said over his shoulder.

Zechsquietly let go of a long breath of relief. He cast a quick glance athis friendand saw the reflection of his face against the dark glass of the window, his eyes dark hollows, his features pale and blank. Yet Treize had allowed him to breach the fortress.

"Yes."Zechs shifted gears, and resettled in his seat as the jeep jolted over a few potholes.

"I thought about it," Treize said against the smudged glass. "There was a time I felt confused... but I think when you decided to push your tongue into my mouth when you were kissing me at the top of the stairs..."

"That winter I fell ill, and you attempted to cure me with elderberry syrup?"

"Yes." A small pause, a shift in Treize's posture, his spine growing rigid. "That night..."

"You climbed that damn rose trellis and nearly broke your neck to clamber into my room."

"The trellis was iced over," Treize replied, somewhat on the defence.

"And it was snowing madly outside."

"I did manage though, did I not?"

"You were frozen. And you had torn your gloves, cut yourself, and broken a nail."

"Just as well you had left your window unlocked."

Zechs bit his lip. A sweetly underhanded little jibe, a reminder that he had madly wanted just that: Treize crawling in with him, hugging him, petting his hair, kissing his shoulder... He shivered and gripped the wheel firmer.

Treize now smiled, shrugged, and at last leaned back in his seat again. "It was worth it. You did a good job warming me up. In fact..." He coughed discreetly to clear his throat before continuing. "I dreamed. And not for the first time, either, but clearer than ever before, what with you so close and wriggling all the time to get closer still... After that night, I was fairly certain that I did not feel about you like an elder brother is supposed to feel." And then, hesitantly, "I was ashamed."

"Ashamed?"

"For causing you discomfort."

"You did not. I wanted you. I wanted you to... to kiss me at least... properly. To touch me, too. Like you did just now. I wanted to touch you, too. You felt good, even though you did turn your back to me all night."

"The bed was too narrow for both of us. You would have guessed what was going on with me."

"I guessed anyway. You were sighing and went all rigid when you came into my sheets. Ihad to put them in the wash the next morning, even though you'd been rubbing at the stains with your shirt." A pause, then, heatedly, "Do you have any idea what you did to me, pulling off your damn shirt in the middle of the night and lying next to me like that?"

Treize covered his eyes with his hand again, but when Zechs cast a quick, worried glance at him, he found to his relief that Treize was smiling, even though his visible ear had flushed bright red. The blush was intense enough to extend down to his neck and beyond the line of his carefully buttoned collar. AndZechs could not help suspecting thatTreize had known exactly and, taking a well-calculated gamble,seized the opportunity to test his limits.

The pool of light over the airstrip seeped into the night as they wound their way between trees and along rutted, muddy tracks; the smell of kerosene and engine oil wafted on the light wind as they were pulled inexorably towards...

_What? Destiny? Nonsense..._

Eyes intent on the road again, Zechs dragged the back of his hand over his mouth. "I should never have-"

"Nonsense, Milliardo." Treize shook his head and at last, leaned back into his seat again, his gaze straying to the airstrip. "I had time to think, that year I spent away." _Recovering from injuries that might easily have killed him, had he not been found in time... had he not been taken care of by strangers... by a woman._

"Was she nice?" The heat in Zechs' voice surprised himself, and Treize looked at him sideways with an odd, guarded smile.

"Please... we did go over this before, did we not?"

The jeep slithered into a mud puddle, carreened wildly; Zechs yanked the gearshaft – down, keep eyes on road, focuson task, shift up again, tyres gripping drier ground, gas...

Treize watched him. "How can you be jealous-"

"I'm not going to cause you any trouble."

Treize tilted his head slightly, as if ducking away... _almost flinching, but then he never flinched, he always faced what troubled him, did he not?_

"-when you leave me just when I found you?"he finished quietly, clearly, his tone rather cool, slightly... pained? Reminding Zechs sharply of how hard Treize had taken his decision to become a soldier, too.

"I don't understand. Why are you saying this?"

The spike of wounded anger in the younger man's voice made Treize wince a little. He drew a slow, deep breath to collect himself, and regain his smile – the polite, somewhat distant version. _Shielding,_ Zechs thought crossly, _hiding, from me..._

Treize gazed ahead, at the approaching lights of the airstrip, his face set in hard, sharply shaded lines, belied by the softness of his voice. "The moment you slip on your uniform, you will be off limits for me. This applies vice versa. Andperhaps you will be put off by what you find. Maybe you will be glad we never... well, we never got any futher."

Zechs had not realised, back then, that Treize was apprehensively talking about himself.

"But I suppose it is a good thing, too," Treize went on, oddly strained as he reached for the dashboard to steady himself as the jeep rumbled over another rough part of the road. Light washed over them, painting them with fleeting shadows. "You will be able to judge better. You will learn. You will meet other people. Women that are not like the spoiled young ladies my mother tends to invite." _Women like Lucy._

"No." Promptly, sharply. Answering an unspoken question.

"Ay Miliusha..."

_I want to believe this._

Treize sagged the slightest bit against the backrest of his seat and looked ahead at the airstrip. By now, they could see the jet on the runway, flares along the edges of the strip of hardened, scorched soil, men in black overalls running about, a fire engine closeby and a tanker just pulling away from the plane.

Zechs slowed down to negotiate the last stretch of road that led up to the hangar. Treize had schooled his face into careful neutrality again, yet Zechshad seenthe melancholy in his eyes and wanted it gone. "Tre..."

"Yes?" Treize turned to meet his gaze, and a smile curved his lips. Warm this time and a little rueful, unlike those he reserved for his public persona.

_For me._ "I won't disappoint you. I swear. I'll make you proud of me."

"I want you to be proud of yourself."

Startled, Zechs shook his head. "What do you mean?"

The contours of the shed-like building of prefab concrete slabs peeling from the lightsodden night. Grey, black, white, the stars in the black sky above swallowed up by clouds and rain and light. Zechs put his foot onto the brake pedal and shifted gears again, unthinkingly, longing for Treize to touch him again. To infuse him with warmth, asreassuring and soothing as it wasintense and exciting. _So many contradictions... so logical... how odd._

"That I cannot lead your life for you." That he was worried. Afraid of letting go. Of not being able to shelter, to guide, to steer.

"I'll be fine." Zechs gave him a quick smile that was meant to brighten Treize's mood, but it came out as a questioning, nervy flicker.

Treize reached for the handle of the door even as Zechs turned the ignition key to kill off the engine. "I know."

_He did not approve._

xxx 

"My old room?" Lucy enquired as she walked into Zechs' apartment. She nodded towards the door to one of the bedrooms – the largest, most comfortable one, with a beautiful view over the park.

He smiled, an edge of guilt in his expression. "Yes, if you still like it."

She studied him for a moment, before she cocked her head and dumped her field-pack onto the floor. "I do. It's nice to be back on Earth; all that red dust was going on my nerves – it just creeps everywhere."

"You will have the place all to yourself at the end of this week."

She stilled, her dark eyes shimmering with carefully contained compassion. "You're going home?"

Zechs closed the door and began to take off his coat. "Yes, to Russia. To pay my respects before everyone turns up for another bout of hero worship; I want to be gone again before the crowd invades the estate."

She watched him, then she sat on the floor to unlace her uniform boots. "You don't have to torture yourself, you know."

"Lucy..."

"We always could talk to one another. Even when you were..."

"Wrecked?" he supplied, turning to look at her dark head, bent intently over her task.

"Yes," she replied calmly and glanced up. "You look good." In a tightfitting grey Preventer tee and uniform pants, neatly polished black boots, and with the blond mane tied in a ponytail.

Zechs smiled and stretched out his hand. "Thanks. Trying to keep up appearances. Come, let me pretend to be a gentleman."

She laughed and grasped his hand so he could haul her up... and close, leaving them both surprised and somewhat breathless, their fingers entwined before he blushed and tried to let go of her; she bit her lip and held on. "It's fine. Though being a soldier did foil my attempts at becoming a lady, I think."

He yielded. It was not hard to give in to her; she felt warm, firm, safe. He liked holding her close. It had taken a long time, but he had come to believe she would not vanish from his life like Treize had done, leaving him in a mess of sorrow and regrets. "Good," he said quietly. "I had enough of fine manners."

Her hands tangled gently in his hair, brushing his bangs back from his forehead. "You miss him."

And the pain flared again. She let go of him as he collapsed into himself with a breathless gasp and reached for the wall to steady himself.

She bent, dark hair falling over her face to hide her expression as she leaned against the wall to pull off her boots, picked them up, along with the bag, and stretched uncomfortably. "I'm bushed and jetlagged. I think I'll crash out for a while, if that's okay with you. I have to report to Une in the morning. Can I kiss you?"

Startled by her quiet, almost monotone words, he leaned against the wall and tried a glare, knowing full well that he was likely to fail, and gave up after no more than a token struggle with himself. "Yes."

So she did. A touching of lips to lips, her body staying at a tiny distance, without moulding against him, but enough for him to feel warmth radiating from her. "You taste good," she said softly. "You look great. You could have anyone, and you're just wasting your life. He would have hated you for this."

"Lucy," he breathed, agony wrenching in his chest as her words lanced through his mind.

She stepped back, her eyes darkly on him. "And you're too thin, all but a bag of bones. You're not meant to live on glucose drinks, and rationbars are not gonna cut it either, yanno. They are for emergency survival... well, perhaps you qualify. I'm gonna cook dinner tomorrow night. You can help if you like."

xxx 

Lucy had been shopping and added a few food items to the stack of rationbars that was his usual fare. He did not care, neither approved nor discouraged, did not even think about it until he realised that she had not told him that she had asked guests over to his place. He was peeling potatoes – divesting himself of this rather mundane and unusual task with the same concentration and efficiency he had learned to apply to everything he did – when he heard the door open, and the muttering of voices. He wiped a few strands of hair out of his face and strained to listen.

Two voices. One deep, flat, without expression, the other one lighter, tense, animated and chattering away – he swore and dropped the peeling knife. Better not to have that in hand when he went out of the kitchen to throw out the unwelcome arrivals. Intruders, no less, notwithstanding the fact that Lucy had invited them, or they would not have dared...

Would they not? They were a brazen bunch, cheeky enough to taunt him even now. Right.

Maxwell's head snapped up first, of course. His impossibly wide, dusky eyes meeting Zechs' cold glare. "Hey... Zechs," he tried to make light, but his voice choked and trailed off, and his smile withered. They were way too familiar with Lucy, Zechs noted fuzzily through the wash of anger that almost drowned him. _Do not loose it now, Treize almost never lost it, but when he did... he would be all glacial, try harder, try it, do not give them the satisfaction..._ Yuy's mouth twitched at Lucy in what in someone else might have been a smile, before he looked at Zechs, his eyes dark and cool as he placed a heavy hand on Maxwell's shoulder. _Possessive, are we? Or what else was he trying to convey?_

"Good evening, colonel," he said calmly.

Lucy crossed her arms and raised her chin as Zechs shot her a savage glance. "They had nowhere to go tonight," she stated, matter-of-factly. "Quarters being refurbished, no missions, no shuttle to L4 and no planes available. Couldn't just shunt them out."

"And no new rooms assigned?" he snapped fiercely, and then knew no better than to seek refuge in the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind himself and his rage.

_Bad, my friend. Very bad. A lapse of form, and a distinct lack of elegance, not to mention manners and a lamentable waste of energy better channelled into fighting... fine, get it. Calm down, concentrate, breathe evenly, one, two, three..._

He stood with his arms braced on the counter, his head hung low, face curtained by swathes of pale blond, when the door slid open slowly. He pointedly studied the grain of the work surface – grey granite, no less, Une really had spared no luxury in trying to make him comfortable – andheard a couple of tentative steps. He nearly did lose it when he heard Maxwell's almost timid voice. "Zechs?"

_Was not my name last time I checked. Never was me. Milliardo. I'm Milliardo, asshole._

_Miliusha.  
__Milushka._

His knees went weak, and he clutched at his chest to grab at the tearing pain thereand pull it out, to silence the faint sobbing sound from deep within before it could escape his lips. "Go away. Get out." He had meant to shout. An order. Harsh, rough, barkedin his command voice. Instead, to his utter shock, it came out as a hoarse, bleak whisper.

"I..." The sharp, fresh scent of unexpensive aftershave wafted over him as the young man stepped closer, apparently to inspect the things set out on the counter – large saucepan half filled with cold water and a few peeled spuds, the sharp, pointed peeler, a net of brown, round, earthstained potatoes and a pile of peel. Without ado, a thin hand grabbed the peeler, and Zechs started and tensed. Having Maxwell this close, with something pointy and potentially lethal in his hands...

He did not look up when he snarled, "Drop it."

"Not gonna kill ya," the young man said, but his voice was shaky, and hecarefully replacedthe peeleronto the work surface. Avoiding anysudden motion. Allowing Zechs to follow his movements, then retreating ever so slowly by a few inches, out of his personal space.

_Well trained, like all of them, even ifthiswas easy to forget when they did not fly their cursed machines. _"Now get out."

"I meant to ask you something."

Zechs clenched his hands, knuckles whitening, nails digging painfully into his palms. "Having trouble with your hearing? Go get it checked."

"Why won't you listen at least?" A slight tinge of anger here. Temper, perhaps, and a stubborn refusal to accept the order.

"There is nothing you can tell me that I would want to hear." Zechs finally mustered enough strength to straighten and sweep back his hair. Maxwell stood still, his bony hands linked before him, knuckles white, nails bloodshot. Small bruises everywhere, from working at the Preventers vehicle park, no doubt flaunting regulations about wearing work gloves. Maxwell had a bit of a reputation.

His eyes rested darkly on Zechs; he had to tilt his head up a little to be able to see Zechs' eyes, and his mouth was set in a shaded smile. "Yeah, maybe, what could I possibly tell someone like you? I'm just a little shite from some street on L2. You're Prince Peacecraft."

Zechs felt his world take an upside down turn as the blood drained from his head. "Not as peaceful as you might like," he hissed.

"The wars are over."

"No. My war is far from over."

"Then when will it end? When you've killed all ofus? Cool. That would have pleased Khushrenada, wouldn't it?"

_Such a little bastard... sticking hisnose and his razor-sharp tongue where it really, damnably hurt._

Maxwell paused, just long enough for Zechs to recall - with a very hard, very conscious effort - that he might look like a schoolboy still, too thin for his height, with this bony face and lanky limbs, but that his easygoing ways were as deceptive as his youthful looks. "Heero didn't want us to come here. He thought it was a trap."

"You know nothing," Zechs managed tersely.

"Then tell me." Not a question, but a demand, though it was spoken softly.

"What? That you are here, in my place, intruding on me? That you have no fucking idea about anything that moved him? Me?"

"So you ARE as assy as I've heard." And another insult.

Zechs stared at him incredulously.

Maxwell snorted a little. It sounded rather resigned. "Well, whatever. The reason we came here..." He shifted a little, his cheeks blooming a soft pink, and he pulled his lower lip between his teeth for a moment as if debating whether or not to carry on, before he gave himself an almost visible push. "I heard you're going to lecture at the Terra College on Mars.

"Isn't this place a village," Zechs remarked acidly, form recovered. And why did Une trust those young men enough to let them know what would not become official until his actual departure? He would get away from Earth, he would get to work with what officially passed as mining and building machinery, convertible with little effort into newly developed gundams. War cloaked as peace effort, death in disguise... Treize would not have approved, or would he? He had forever been pursuing his grand schemes... Teaching at the elite college was a rather convenient cover for what Une really wanted Zechs to do on the Terra project. _New OZ have spun a fine web: we ARE Preventers now. We might have shapeshifted, adapted our methods to this new world, altered our tactics, but our aim has remained,even our strategy isthe same: to endure and be prepared. We must never allow a war on that scale again. And peace needs to be shielded. We are Treize's soldiers. We are the shield. _

"A village, yeah." Absentmindely, Maxwell fished for his braid that dangled over his shouilder and began to fiddle nervously with the tuft of hair at the end of the braid, but his eyesremained steadfastly on Zechs. "I've signed up to the project. Need a change of air."

Because Earth was suffocating him? Now that sounded familiar. Zechs remained still and rigid. Even so, this had nothing to do with him. _Right._

"They said they'd accept me for my experience. I'll work, as a mechanic, but... well, I'd hoped... I really thought..." The pink flush deepened to a flecky crimson hue. "Heero thinks I'm bonkers."

So whatever he wanted, it would be a way of getting back at Yuy. Maybe it did have something to do with Zechs, after all. _Listen, Zechs, listen carefully now, your war is not finished, you are craving closure because it is killing you not to have it, and perhaps this is how to get it._

Maxwell looked rather uncomfortable, if determined. _Like someone preparing to jump off a cliff, without knowing what to expect below._ "I'm prepping for the entry exams."

_And get what exactly?_ Zechs frowned, then scowled as he was chasing after the sliver of a thought, and found he had forgotten what he was after.

But this had to be the most ridiculous proposition in a long time, and then some – Maxwell the street rat, trying to get into one of the most prestigious, clubby, cliquey educational establishments ever. A hotbed for bright young things, Preventer upstarts, an almost unfailing route to a sparkling carreer as specialist engineers, highly paid, highly priced elite officers, leading cadres, or lone stars destined for glamorous solo missions. Only the best of the best would do, as always for OZ. For the glory and fame of the institution. Preventers forever. And Maxwell would have no idea about New OZ, or would he?

Zechs nearly laughed out loud. And then he saw that Maxwell had read his expression, those keen, dusk-coloured eyes darkening with aflood of anger and pain, and Zechs could have sworn that they were filling up as well.

"I never was as lucky as you," the young man bit out. "And you're damn right to think we're nothing. Point taken, right? So I'm gotta catch up now. Wanna try to make sense of it all. Build instead of breaking things."

He took Zechs by surprise. He had taken Zechs' throwaway remark to heart? And he had the guts to plough ahead, bare himself to hisunrepentant enemy no less, because he had accepted the stab and decided to do something about it... Zechs remembered vaguely a sense of fairness, instilled into him by Treize an eternity ago. Should it be applied here?

Maxwell waved his blemished, spiderthinhand in a vaguely dismissivegesture. "Anyway, I'm stuck."

Zechs was groping for something... an answer, perhaps. Yes, those exams were designed to trap people unsuited for the job. Unlikely to make it, subsequently clogging up the system and wasting resources on failures. Maxwell was brave if he admitted defeat now and still had not given up. So he had to be stupid, too. Treize would know what to do. Zechs exhaled in a sharp, angry puff. He hated having to make decisions all the time. "Go elsewhere."

"I did. You really think you'd be my first choice?"

Zechs paused, imagining how Maxwell had tried to get one of the other officers to support him, to help him climb over this hurdle, give him at least the sliver of a chance, and how they would have turned him down with a dousing of arrogance fit to freeze a desert. How hewould havetrudged from door to door, trying to cling to his hopes that someone would see beyond the stories everyone knew – street kid turned gundam pilot and now Preventer grease monkey. And how they would have joked when he barely had turned his back,his dreams melting away bit by bit until...

Zechs bit his lip. Treize would have reserved such attitudes for dealing with his own. To his soldiers, he had been a pragmatic, down-to-earth man, modest about his own requirements, always concerned about the welfare of his troops who would respect him for his hard and fair regime. Zechs felt heat rise to his cheeks and tried to refocus on his task, to hide the sudden twinge of shame that prodded at him.

Maxwell drew a deep breath, collecting himself, before he said, "Please. You know this stuff inside out. You know what they expect. I can't read between the lines, I'm crap at diplomacy, and I don't understand their mindset yet. I'm not asking for solutions, I think I'll find those myself alright. Just help me through those damn questions, explain them to me, and I'll be able to answer them."

"You don't get the questions and want me to believe you'll be able to go through three years of the same with some measure of success?"

The young man stared at him. "I'd bet you, if I'd think you'd take a bet from me."

Zechs picked up the peeler and a potato. "Not worth the effort."

"Coward." A low, soft sound, and Zechs almost thought he had misheard, but there was the challenge in those eyes, the set of thin lips, the stiff stance.

Beginning to slide the blade over the spud, Zechs shook his head. "You really believe you can handle it? Public school atmosphere, where people like you aren't even allowed in as cleaners? They'd bully you to shreds before you could even string yourself up in despair."

"I'm used to people trying." Maxwell's carefully flat tone, the deepening shadows in his eyes, gave Zechs pause.

_If nothing else, it might be amusing to watch._ Zechs dropped a long, perfect spiral of peel into the sink and, with a light flick of his wrist, tossed the potatoto join the rest. It landed in the pan with a splash, and he caught himself smiling a little at the same time as Maxwell.

_Great aim; old skills unite. Fat chance..._

Almost embarrassed, he let his gaze slip past the young man and nodded pointedly at the door that gave onto the lounge. "Why is HE here?"

"Because we were not sure whether you'd try to murder me or not. I'm not stupid. And he won't trust you, in spite of all this honour shit the pair of you were babbling when you were fighting."

_Join the club then. _Zechs bean to peel another potato, hardly paying attention as the swift, sure strokes of the blade laid bare the pale flesh. "You have some nerve to turn up here, telling me that and still expecting help." He looked up, never pausing in his work, to gauge Maxwell's reaction.

Dusky eyes narrowing slightly, the young man let go of his braid and tossed it back over his shoulder, staring a strange kind of challenge at Zechs – his gaze without insult or hostility, holding neither plea nor anger, just... curiosity?

Zechs grappled for his rage and found, surprised and annoyed, that it had drained away without him realising. "What?" he rasped uncomfortably, while trying to hold on to his aloofness at least.

Maxwell shrugged. "Well, we argued."

_Stupid to hand such obvious ammunition to an enemy. _Zechs continued to glare, not sure what else to do. Did stalemates feel like that? Or, heaven forbid, surrender? He had no experience with yielding, except to Treize, and even then it had been no fun to bend his pride. "I have to fix dinner," he said, feeling oddly helpless.

A faint smile tugged at Maxwell's lips, before he reluctantly allowed it to spread and warm his expression, the shadows melting away from those amazing eyes that began to shine with renewed energy. "I can help. Now that we're here and not going away. What do you want me to do?"

Huffing in exasperation, Zechs grabbed the peeler in a firmer, more determined grip. If he created havoc now, Lucy would refuse to understand, and Une would be disappointed. She hoped so much he would make his peace with this world, and he had tried. Oh, he had tried, only to find it was beyond him to love the place Treize had adored. This world that had taken its squabbles to war and killed the man that gave it peace.

He was not fond of Earth. ButEarth had also created Treize himself.

Zechs could not suppress a shiver. "Make some coffee," he said gruffly. Unlikely that this would hand any weapon to Maxwell until the hot brew had passed through the machine and was bubbling in the glass jar. "Strong. No need to save on ground."

Maxwell began to bustle around without another word. Within moments, he haddiscovered jar and ground coffee in one of the kitchen cabinets and set about his task with the efficiency of a well-trained fighter.

_Another thing in common._ Zechs slashed too hard at the potato he was peeling, and the blade bit harshly into his palm. He stilled, for a few heartbeats watching blood well from a long gash. Crimson on white, the colours of love and death, and of the roses that climbed the trellis to his and Treize's rooms at the house in Russia...

The aroma of brewing coffee began to fill the room. A tea towel was shoved into his hand.

"I'll go next door then," Maxwell said quietly, with a small, nervous smile that was mirrored in his eyes. Zechs could read it exactly; he had felt the same often enough: a spark of hope, mingling with defiance and pride.

He clamped down ruthlessly on the rising pain. "You mentioned a bet." He sounded rebellious, slightly petulant, and he did not care. Not ready to let go of fixations yet, of his very own war that had provided him with a hold during this latest eternity without Treize. They had always been eternities, those times without him.

_Try living without a soul... to hell with it all..._

"Uhm," Maxwell's mumbled response cut into the familiar downward spiral of his thoughts.

"You dared me to bet," Zechs urged, letting amusement colour his tone to cover up the bile he tasted beneath.

"Okay." One thin hand on the door handle, the other one raised in acceptance, the young man eyed him apprehensively. "So?"

Zechs regarded him darkly, squeezing the bloodstained teatowel. "I hold. The price?"

Maxwell shifted from one foot to the other. "Uh... actually... I didn't think of anything."

"I did," Zechs spat. Swift, sharp, ragged like lightning – to disabuse Maxwell of any illusion that there might be a chance for him. Better now than later. "I win, you get out of my life for good; you leave the project and get your ass as far away from me as possible. That means you'd also have to quit Preventers, and I don't care just how you do it. You can always go back to L2. That's my offer. Take it or leave it."

The vague smile vanished, leaving the younger man's face hard and pinched. "You're such an asshole, Zechs, really." He pondered, disappointment and resignation warring clearly within, andthen in a rather desperate show of daring, he shrugged. "But hey, yeah, if this is what gets your rocks off, I accept. So what if I win?"

Zechs shrugged, picking up the next potato and beginning to peel it while holding it with the unstained portion of the towel. "Choose." With an air of carelessness that showed Maxwell exactly that Zechs did not expect this scenario to happen. It should have been disheartening, and from the corner of his eye he saw that Maxwell struggled against a debilitating loss of hope. _Serves you right, get a taste of this... it's damn ugly, and you do not like it one bit, don't you? Why should I be alone in it..._

"Okay." Maxwell drew himself up, bristling, eyes sharp and angry. "If I win, you will teach me." His voicewas quickly regaining firmness and confidence; either he had a remarkable resilience and ability to recover from his lows, or perhaps he was just really good at acting it out. Either way, Zechs envied him. Maxwell curled his thin hands into fists by his sides. "Throughout the entire course. I wanna learn from the best, even if that's a complete idiot like you. You will teach me everything, and I wanna know about... I... you will let me ask anything I wanna know. Just anything."

Zechs bit his lip, his mind catching on something he could not quite determine. _Anything?_ Peel, swiftly, smoothly, another long spiral of speckled, earthy brown skin dangling into the sink, to reveal the firm ivory flesh beneath, glistening with moisture. He cut the peel off and rinsed the potato under the tap before he threw it into the pan. "Fine," he at last squeezed out. "You have my word for it. Now leave me alone."

xxx 

The echo of words spoken, in bitter resentment, an eternity ago.

_Leave me be... why could you not do just that? Why can't you now, that you're dead, blasted into myriads of particles, stardust, forever floating through the blackness of space..._

Leave me.

When he had wanted nothing more for Treize to teach him... everything. Touch him where he longed for touch, thoughtfully trail those firm, hard fingers over his skin, making him squirm... but no, Treize had other ideas. Such as cramming formulae until Zechs was ready to explode in rather uncalculated bursts of temper, and Treize instead of kissing was snarling at him to focus.

Putting him down. Putting him off. Driving him away with words sharper than gunshots.

He had tried to hold on, and failed, and flung those words at the one he was craving more than the air he was breathing. Yet Treize had been right again. The distance, althoughZechs refused to admit it, helped him to concentrate his energy for his studies. He met Lucy and found, to his surprise, someone ready to share, compete, listen... someone equal.

It had been a new experience.

And only when he had accidentally walked in on her washing in her dorm room, did he register consciously that she was a woman. Standing half-naked, in boots and trousers, and about to towel dry her hair as he stepped into her room with his fingers in a book of formulae.

He stared at her. She stared back, frozen with her arms raised over her head, a blush on her cheeks, and he felt suddenly flustered, looked down only to blush wildly when he saw the soft, smooth curves of her breasts. It had not helped to run into Treize that evening, near the officer's mess which he had to pass on his way to the library. Treize had known something was up, and he had not liked it.

Treize's way of dealing with what could have become an issue was to prevent it before it could develop. He had been none-too-subtle about it, either. Treize had summoned Zechs to his office, and they had run through the data of the newly developed mobile suits that would become available to the best of the cadets for flight training. "You are digressing," he had hurled at Zechs in this glassy tone that showed utter displeasure.

"Digressing?" Zechs snapped back. "From what?"

"From your duty. You know perfectly well what the regulations say about personal involvements among personnel."

"Invol- I am not involved with anyone!" And with unconcealed bitterness, "Not even with you anymore, for the looks of it."

Treize had been still for a moment, his face just outside the circle of light cast by his desk lamp, his gloved hand resting lightly on the papers they had covered with notes and calculations.

Irritated by Treize's cold outburst and sudden silence, Zechs tried to soften his remark. "I'd take any order from you, you know that."

"Then... I should order you to leave... but I am afraid I am too selfish."

"I want to be here. Close to you the only way you let me. Be your shield if I can."

"You... I thought you were getting over this. You told me-"

"I lied."

A small, heavy pause, then Treize shook his head. "And yet... you might come to hate me for this."

"I'll never hate you. I love you... so much, sometimes it hurts. Why does it hurt, Tre?"

_Because we both knew it could not last._

"I do not know."

"Liar."

"Would I ever lie to you?"

"Only when it suits you."

"Ouch." Another pause, Treize's fingers softly tapping onto the papers. "Ay Miliusha moy... love and hate... sometimes one turns into the other before we know it, and sometimes they are one and the same." He rose, straightening out his uniform with a swift, automatic gesture, and then beckoned his friend. "Come, we should go have some food."

"Now?"

"The officer's mess will still serve."

Zechs got up and began to close the books and push the papers into a neat pile. He gave Treize a doubtful glance. "I can't tell whether you're mocking me, Tre, but why would you want to drag me there? I can do without taunts."

"Oh? But I owe you."

"No you don't," Zechs gritted out, temper rising.

"Yes I do. I was away on your birthday; let me make up to you." He strode to the door, and paused, half-turning to look at Zechs. "By the way, I have marching orders for a detachment of the best cadets of your yearclass. You remember the extracurricular exams you applied for and passed? Your training here is finished; you will leave tomorrow morning with me to fly to one of the classfied bases that house our answer to the colonial threat."

Zechs tensed. "I passed?"

Treize's eyes were dark, unscrutable. "You came second best, after Cadet Noin."

Lucrezia.  
_Lucy._

Zechs smiled. Treize looked at him blankly. "I hope you know what you are doing."

Zechs set down the stack of books and stepped close, and after a moment of hesitation, laid his hand on Treize's arm. "I will do better next time, I promise."

"That was not what I meant." And Treizeseized his hand and kissed his knuckles, before letting it drop and marching out, without a glance back at Zechs who scrambled to follow him.

xxx 

They ate dinner in civilised, frosty silence. After that, Zechs was astounded to find that Heero Yuy could make smalltalk. Even though his voice, too dark for someone of his age andsomewhat smoky,did not become any more animated, he undeniably was chatting – with Lucy, no less, who had set a couple of bottles amid the dinner plates. Vodka and whiskey, a bowl of rapidly melting ice, the pile of plates stacked up to make room for tumblers. She had even brought a small radio that stood on the flecked table cloth and blared pop songs.

Zechs stood to carry the plates into the kitchen – he had merely picked at his food, he sensed Zero like a distant, slopping mass beginning to fill up his head, and the smell of alcohol and food made his stomach roil. For a moment, he stared into the sink that was filling up with water and suds of detergent.

And then, he simply stopped struggling and allowed his mind togo blank. He walked out, crossed the room where they were sitting and chatting, took his coat from the peg with deliberate slowness, and left the apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against he wall for a moment to draw a deep breath, eyes closed, blood humming in his temples.

Being assigned as one of the key people to a flagship project had its perks: a jeep for his own private use, a reserved parking bay in the multistorey garage beneath the apartment block. And for him, the Lightning Count, ace pilot, the soldier prince and brother of Her Excellency RelenaPeacecraft, also a private jet on the airfield adjacent to the Preventer headquarters.

The junior officers in charge at this late hour were startled by his request, but he merely asked for an overall – that turned out a few inches too short for his arms and legs – and helped to get his jet ready.

A couple of hours later, he was one of many stars moving through the winter-dark skies.

Fleeing to Russia.

Home.

xxx 

Relena rang him before he could settle in the dusky, smoke-flavoured silence of the great house. He had soothed her, assured her of his love, and she cried then, her face turned away from him in an attempt to hide her tears. Heplaced his hand against the screen of the vidcom, and then his cheek. "I'm so tired, Lena."

Shelaid her small hand against his large one, her fingers moving in a distant caress. "I understand. You worry me. Lucy told me where to get hold of you – I should have guessed it myself. She is on her way to meet you there."

"Ah..." He straightened, let his hand fall away, and shook his head. "No need to worry. I won't do anything stupid. I know you like that Yuy boy, and I'll behave. They should not have come to my place though."

"Do you still hate them so much?"

He listened into himself for a heartbeat or two, and then brushed back his hairso he could meet her eyes, his gaze starkly calm. "I feel nothing." Except for Zero in his head. Rummaging in his mind, his memories, an almost physical presence, reawakened from the darkness where it had lain dormant...

xxx 

He had not expected Chang Wufei at that place. The shard of gundanium, soaring from the frozen ground of the Khushrenada estate into the snowbound sky. A fitting memorial to the man who had attempted tounite Earth and space in his dream of universal peace, and died trying.

Zechs glared at the short, slender figure, swathed in a black coat that was too thinto ward off the biting frost of the Russian winter. "Are you lot everywhere?" A few snowladen steps, crunching in the chill whiteness. "In my battles, in my nightmares, in my apartment, and now even here?"

"I was not at your apartment. I did not think it a good idea. And I'll go in a moment," came the quiet answer, dark eyes homing in on him, holding his stare for a breathless moment before breaking away. "I wanted to pay my respects."

"You killed him."

Chang tightened, almost recoiled, as if hit between the shoulderblades. "Yes."

A long stillness settled between them, snow whispering in fine, glittering flakes from a rapidly darkening sky.

"I am sorry,"Chang said at last, his gaze fastened on the piece of metal, "but not for your grief. I have my own to carry. I miss my wife. My family. My home."

_War begets itself, my friend... for peace, you have to work._

Zechs bit his lips hard enough to draw blood.Chang dug his hands into his coat pockets. "I miss them. But I am sorry for having been mistaken. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps... when you meet him, you will tell him that. There is no honour in war. I think he knew that one, and he tried to make us understand." Hepressed his chin into his collar, his dark eyes meeting Zechs' blue ones once more as if seeking for something. "I am going back home. There is so much work..." A small, almost expectant break, before he briefly inclined his head in a nod that almost resembled a tight little bow of respect.

Zechs watched him stalk off, hampered by the deepening snow, towards a motorised sleigh half-hidden beneath the trees that lined the driveway from the main road into the estate.

When the engine of the sleigh revved up, Zechs turned to the memorial, giving the scorched, rainbow-shimmering shard a nasty glare. "Treize... if you are somewhere you can hear me, then let me tell you that you are one complete bastard." He paused, closing his eyes, and added in a choked whisper, "Notwithstanding the fact, sir, that I'd do anything to have you back."

xxx 

Both he and Lucy had gone through their set of exams with the highest score in the history of the Academy. Higher than Treize, who was glowing with pride – he had come to the graduation ceremony, and the Academy staff felt greatly honoured. Zechs had not been sure how much of Treize's rather intense interest in the school was personal and how much professional, yet back then, this was not what rankled most with him.

The fact that Lucy had intentionally lost to him by one point had caused his temper to flare; not only did he fall out with her, buthe very nearly refused to accept the double promotion and the year medal that were his prize. Only Treize's intervention stopped him. "Do not be ridiculous. You would embarrass the entire school, and as far as I am aware, Lieutenant Noin prefers to stay on as a trainer instead of taking up combat duties. I need good people here, too."

And that had been the end of the matter, with Zechs feeling petty and small and most ashamed for having been too self-absorbed... Facing the parade field full of cadets and officers in parade uniform, in perfect formation while he received his decoration and diploma, he had sworn to himself to make up for this. To become the best, without doubt.

And soon after that, he had received his first command...

Treize never was one to waste time.

xxx 

Lucy arrived at the house early the next morning, when the world lay in perfect silence under mountains of snow that had whispered down relentlessly during the night. It was still sheeting, dense and wet, from a heavy sky.

He scolded her for having flown through a blizzard, but she waved him off. "It wasn't too stormy, and it's barely snowing now," she laughed, pulled off her boots and shook out her uniform coat.

He took it off her and slung it over his arm while waiting for her to finish. "It was last night."

She tossed the boots aside, then thought it over and set them neatly by the main door where the servants would collect them for polishing.

Zechs stretched out his arm, and she took his hand and hauled herself up. "I'm hungry."

Following an impulse, he kissed her. "Me too."

She looked startled, cheeks reddened from cold and perhaps something else, eyes dark and apprehensive. "Don't play with me, Milliardo."

"No, you can play with me if you like."

"Are you drunk? At this time of the day?"

He sighed and pulled her with him towards the drawing room. "No. As sober as a stick. A dry, grumpy stick with a nasty headache. Perhaps more of a prick, then?"

She shook her head, smiling at his attempt tocrack a joke. "Zero?"

He nodded. The room was flooded with the grey light of a cloud-laden winter morning, the fire lit and burning slowly, the table set for two. The place smelled as always, of floorwax, woodsmoke, and also of fresh coffee. "I thought you'd be on my heels," Zechs said, noticing her glance. He draped her coat over the back of a chair and gestured at another. The table near the French doors, white linen, silver, china... it helped that the day was not sunny, or it would have driven him mad to remember too vividly... other times, someone else sitting here with him, bright blue eyes, a dazzling smile...

He busied himself uncovering a butter dish and a plate with toasted white bread. Strictly European breakfast, with nothing to remind him of those lavish winter mornings spent here, talking over cooling tea and rye bread with rose marmalade.

_Just who am I trying to fool here?_

She sat down, and he poured coffee for both of them before taking his own seat opposite her. She took her time appraising him while he leaned back, crossing long legs at the ankles, and sipped his drink. He was glad that he had not neglected his appearance: he had dressed neatly in plain black – rollneck jumper, jeans, boots, all expensive stuff as he was used to. Head bent slightly forward, long silver tresses whispered down to his shoulders and beyond, he let his eyes stray to the dim cold world outside the silent room. His face still but attentive. He was waiting, prepared to listen.

"You look tired... better though," she said quietly. "I am sorry I drove you from your own place."

"Don't be. I was stupid to run like that." He slowly swirled the coffee in his cup, then placed both hands around it as if to warm himself, or to hold on to something as his gaze returned to her. To find she was mirroring his expression, as so often. It made things easier. She had always made things easier for him, taken off some of the pressure Treize had put on him. The skill of a good instructor... Treize had been right once again.

_All for the greater good..._

"I had time to think. About what to do now. Where to go, from here. With the system in my head, I can never be quite sure..." He set the cup down and laid his hands onto the table. They were relaxed, calm. "On Mars, it will be easier to run a few more test series. No one peering over our shoulders, and no press breathing down my neck. I'm tired of hiding. I miss him like mad. Don't handle it too well, and I'm sorry if I hurt you. I really am."

She touched his hands, an easy gesture, familiar, soothing, reassuring. He managed a smile, and felt himself grow a little lighter for it. "You said you were hungry. The toast is getting stale."

"We're used to that up there. I am glad you will be closer."

No declaration of affection beyond a few sparse words, delivered in her dry, level tone. A small silence fell, and he registered with surprise that it felt good, the wordless understanding between close friends that could afford to leave things unsaid.

"Relena..."

Lucy smiled. "Une will take good care of her while you are away, but I am sure you know that."

Another pause, before he said quietly, "And Yuy?"

A quick tightening of her grip on his hands; then she let go. "They are getting on well with one another. I think he's happy to have a task, and your sister seems to like his company because he doesn't try to patronise her."

Zechs could not help a little smile. "Not that it would do anyone much good to try that." He began to spread butter onto his toast. "Lucy..."

"Hm?" She bit into a dry slice and washed it down with some coffee.

"Where is Maxwell now?"

She had clearly expected his question. "On his way to the shuttle port," she replied, mouth full, and wiped a few crumbs from her lips.

"Ah. In that case, I think he'll make it." He shook his head, laughed a little. "Good for him."

"They told himthey cannot understand how someone like him could even hope to pass the entry exam."

"Oh?"

"He told them to eff off and wait until he got there."

Zechs pressed a napkin to his lips to keep from spluttering. "He's gonna have a hard time."

"He will manage."

"Why did say you would help him?"

Zechs drew up his shoulders. "Because... I don't know, really. Perhaps to dupe those arrogant idiots a little." _Because Treize would never judge anyone like those people did. Because I know how it feels, only that I was the boywonder that slept his way to the top... never mind that I WAS the best... and who knows what that kid can achieve if he can do this... streetrat or not, he's flown a gundam, after all. That's more than most of them can claim credit for. _

"Lucy?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know... did Une send Chang to talk to me?"

"Did you talk to him?"

Zechs leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander once more into the mottled white of the winter day.

_So much snow. Covering up everything, our tracks in time... like stardust, and here we are, hoping for yet another dawn... do I want to forget what we were together? What if this were the price for winning peace with myself?_

"I want to stop hurting."

She set down her food and looked at him, the line of his profile, shaded in the dusky room. The contours of his face firmer now but still with some of the padding of youth around his cheeks and chin; soft lips that looked innocent when they were not drawn back in a battle sneer, or thin with bitterness;hair like stardust... "Then you need to look for closure," she said gently.

He swallowed hard.

After a long silence, with nothing but the rustling of the fire on the hearth and the soundless rush of snow outside, he shook his head. "Maybe," he murmured, closing his eyes to sink back into familiar darkness, "one day I can just forget."

She smiled wistfully. "Do you really want that?"

And before he could protest, she went on, "The shuttle tickets are reserved for tomorrow night. I did not think you would like to linger here for much longer."

He opened his eyes and met her warm gaze. "No," he agreed, "I don't." He shoved back his chair and got up. "I will go and pack a few things. You... well, you know your way around. There's enough time for a bath, and I'll get someone to cook you a proper meal before we leave."

She got up too, and to his broad back, she said, "Have you ever cried, Milliardo?"

With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to look at her, a vague smile on his lips, his eyes cool... he knew he might as well have slipped on his old mask. An act of self-denial worthy of the man who had been his life and now was dead and waiting for him.

_On the other side. But I would not yet been welcome, now would I? For your work here is not finished. You are not finished with us. _

_Very well, I will try harder..._

"There is no need."

_Because you are waiting, and someday, I will be joining you. __I will work harder so it may come sooner._

"We all have a goal again, don't we?"

_Soon. When I'm done doing your work.  
__And then I'll be at peace, too._

**xxx**

Next chapter: Dawn

**Notes:  
****1** Ah, Miliusha mine, how beautiful...  
**2** Miliusha – one possible Russian diminutive of Milliardo, an endearment; Milushka – same applies, but this one is even more tender and sweet  
**3** modern military uniform types include battledress, working dress, walking out dress, mess dress, and ceremonial full dress.  
**4** moya lyubov, pozhaluista... ya tak zhal... - моя любовь, пожалуйста... Я - так жаль... - my love, please... I am so sorry...


	2. Chapter 2 Dawn

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: see Chapter 1.

**xxx**

**Chapter 2 - Dawn**

It was over so quickly, Zechs hardly registered the blast. Amid the eerily silent flurry of laser blasts, mobile suits, burnt out shells and bloated corpses... the stillness of space littered with bursts of soundless fire, the groaning that shuddered through the Libra when the Peacemillion rammed into the main cannon of the battleship. Zero yelled at him inside his head so loudly that all around him were shadows, numbers, co-ordinates, faceless, cold, factual... scenarios, tactics, models, games...

He did not need a strategy anymore. He had never thought he would, for his goal was so simple – why could Treize not see? And still Zechs clung to the battle station of the Libra while the great ship began to break apart. She bucked and lurched, moaning as though she was a living being when cracks began to shriek through her metal skin, fire racing through her innards and smoke choking her hallways and cabins.

He had refused Treize's challenge for a duel, confused as to why, and then it hit him with shocking clarity – he would not do him the favour, not THAT favour.

_Remember... a duel at sabres, on a sun-drenched summer meadow, the blade gleaming and shining back from Treize's eyes, laughing at him, challenging him..._

And then gundam zero-five was cutting its way through the fire and the debris, past mobile dolls and his fellow gundams that seemed to support Treize, oh yes, of course, everyone had joined up, they were all against him, the Lightining Count, everything had always been united against him, and he had always beaten all the odds.

_Blades crossing, then clashing, hard, fast, murderous, their playful sparring turned into something else entirely by Treize who would not yield an inch to him. Treize had piqued his pride, stoked his heat by goading him, mocking his inexperienced fervour and plunging him into a frenzy of calculating passion... making him want to win at all costs..._

All against one, how strange that Treize should accept to become part of such an uneven struggle, but Zechs would show them just what it meant to go to war, with thunder and lightning indeed. And when he was done, Earth would be no more, cursed be it and its spawn.

_And won he had, tumbled into the trampled, fragrant grass, the steel at Treize's throat drawing the finest line of crimson, Treize laying still beneath him, but the smile... in those blue eyes shone with undiminished, thrilled arrogance: I have seen you bare now, Miliusha... _

And then... another explosion, larger than the others, brighter, dazzlingly intense, and Zero sliced into his brain with a blast of pain that knocked the breath from him and brought him screaming to his knees... as he stared, eyes going impossibly wide, at this glare that swept over the screen, filling it out until there was nothing else but light.

_And too late he had realised that he had given himself away completely. That he did not care... and found himself begging... I want you... want you... please..._

A white, silent ball of light in the frigid blackness. Blooming slowly.

_Gods, Treize... please..._

He refused to believe what he saw... what he felt as the beam of gundam zero-five sliced into Treize's Epyon.

_Love me... love me... love..._

The soundless tearing asunder of armour plating.

_Inside me... my heart... my body... my soul.._

The gush of debris, sucked into the insatiable hollowness of space: small things, once needed, now pointless.

_My Self... yesss..._

Floating, dancing, like specks of dust around a brightly blossoming star.

_Forever... forever... forever mine..._

But in his head, Zero shrieked Treize's dying at him.

_For me... wait for me... come for me... scream for me..._

Every brutal second.

Every terrified heartbeat.

Every scorching breath.

_For you are mine..._

Until the shield of Treize's cabin burst.

_My rose..._

The light faded into a slowly billowing cloud of luminescent dust, and stillness poured into Zero.

_My rose..._

From Zechs tore a scream, unending, breathless, howling

_My rose... my rose... my rose..._

And he let himself fall, welcoming the fire.

_Stardust... _

_To Ashes..._

_And Tears..._

_To Dust... _

The flames that engulfed the brightness within, heading for Earth like a shooting star as he made his wish.

_I am coming for you, my rose..._

On Earth rose another dawn.

_So far away... let me reach... hold me fast... you promised... you promised... you promised... my heart..._

As the scorched shard of the Libra tore a sparkling path into the vast brilliant blue of the ocean.

_On fire..._

A wide arc, written by the still white-hot shield, a spray of salt-bright diamonds rising high as the fragment sunk deeper into its own gleaming wake, shooting towards the rock-strewn beach with the speed of a torpedo.

_You promised..._

Bursting through the foaming surf that broke over salt-washed rocks, smashing stones out of its way, ploughing sharply into the soft sand that flew up high, wings of sand, heavy, flapping wet, grey curtains that rose and fell sluggishly.

_To wait..._

A steaming veil of sand, draping over the tangled lump of cooling metal that still glowed dark red on its ragged upper side even as it was chilling to an angry black-blue below.

_Please, take me..._

The surf roaring...

_With you... don't... leave... me... alone..._

Thundering its farewell...

_A fate worse than Death..._

To a soldier...

_I beg of you..._

"Lieutenant, over here! We found him! We found him!"

_Grant me..._

"Lieutenant Noin, sir! He's alive!"

_Release..._

"Get the ambulance! Where are the cutters, move it, cut him outta there, and where the hell is the oxygen..."

_But I cannot grant..._

"Milliardo."

_This wish because..._

"Milliardo, can you hear me?"

_I love you._

"...but you know that, don't you?"

**xxx **

Next chapter: Do Not Believe

**Note:  
**(1) Treize's dying - see 'Grief' for more detail on those moments


	3. Chapter 3 Do Not Believe

Dedicated to Karina. Thank you for your lovely reviews!

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: see Chapter 1.

**xxx**

**Chapter 3 - Do Not Believe**

After the death of Treize Khushrenada, the world he had shaped kept turning, while layer by layer, the old world was peeled away, like sunburnt skin will flake to reveal a fresh, raw newness beneath... trading war for peace, conflict for restitution, despair for hope. Just as he had foreseen, his vision turning out as precise as his plans had been.

Yet for the man who had conquered the Zero system, this bright new world held no lustre. The most brilliantpilot ever, the acefighter who once had flown the most advanced weapon ever developed, now wanted to remember nothing. Dazed and hurting, he was lingering on a white hospital bed in a farflung corner of the snowbound vastness of Siberia. Here, no one knew his name, and the majority of the sparse population had barely heard of the exploits of the Lightning Count.

Barely in his twenties, Zechs Marquise was too numb to care whether he lived or died. Cocooned into layers of white cotton bandages, collagen weave, and for some time placed into the protective shell of an oxygen tent that would help hisscorched body form a new skin, he lay dying inside even as humanity was renewing itself with all the vigour of life after death.

**xxx**

He had spent weeks in the small hospital. Weeks turning into months while his life ticked over amid bandages and the reek of chloroform and sickness. Heavily sedated against the pain of his burns and fractures, spun into an intricate web of cables, syringes and blinking machines, a tube stuck down his throat to ventilate his lungs, the vague light of his small white room never fading or brightening. Steady, unwavering, timeless.

The medical staffdid not know who he was. They took care of him as they would of any human being that was hurt and suspended in the neverland between death and life, and they fought as doggedly for his life as he fought to leave it.

They won. Their warmth, their incessant work that he made so hard, their compassion with this young soldier whose eyes seemed so sad...

He refused to come round.  
They shocked his heart into thudding again.

He denied his body the food they tried to force down his mouth soon after the tube had been removed.  
They stuck another tube down his stomach to feed him.

He struggled to come off his bed when he was told to stay put.  
They strapped him down.

The fight of wills lasteduntil they were content that he had given up. Yielding. Giving in to sheer superiority of force. Outnumbered, alone, with no backup, he let them make him live. His only visitor - a woman, with short dark hair and a firm, commanding voice - spent long hours by his bedside, to hold his hand, to talk in a quiet tone as if to herself. She told him about snow melting outside, and the first breath of spring, late and reluctantin the cold Siberian winter. He cast about in his fogged mind and remembered a name. "Lucy?"

She turned away so that he could not see her face, but he knew from the set of her shoulders, and wondered why on earth anyone would cry for him. In his head, in the black mud that was slopping against his skull beyond the pain of his burned skin, a strange, low wailing echoed... persistent, stinging and slicing into his brains...

Zero.

His memories crashed over him like a blinding wave, his eyes flew open, his body reared off the bed, and he began to scream...

**xxx**

He drifted back to consciousness later, with a nurse and a doctor rushing in as soon as the monitors showed that their most troublesome patient had woken from his drug-induced stupor. He was back on the ventilator, and time had slipped, like sand slips from an open hand.

Combat Stress Reaction, selective amnesia, dissociative disorder...

Once they knew that they had succeeded in saving his life, they had labeled and boxed him and still failed to get through. They could not understand.

Time was a passing of grey: lighter grey, darker grey, mottled grey, blank grey. Punctuated with waves of agony that washed over him whenever he was preoccupied with some function of the living flesh. He bore with indifference the machines that held him captive with their soft hum and their wires and tubes, the white-clad men and women who tried to patch up his skin. And he watched this body hurt and heal against his will, from a safe distance, detached, impassive, almost bored

For in his head, Zero kept screaming, and not even the depths of his coma had silenced it.

Those last few moments.  
The savagery of it all.  
The raging pain of a loss too great to comprehend.

Irreversible.  
Monstrous in its finality.

He smelled the flowers even through the daze of sedation and the hissing breath of the ventilator, and later the nurses and doctors would argue heatedly that under no circumstances could their bandaged, semi-conscious, machine-animated patient have swiped the vase with fresh red roses from the nightstand. But it had been shattered on the polished grey lino floor, the flowers broken, petals scattered, and he had hung barely alive in his wires and tubes, one of his drips torn out of his bleeding arm, the ventilator mask askew, his blankets rumpled and bloodstained...

His eyes, pale and red-rimmed between the bandages that covered most of his face, were leaking bitter tears when the nurses packed him back onto his bed and strapped him down for good measure. In the doctor's office, Noin yelled at the medic in charge, forbidding him to ever do something like that again... no news, no radio, no flowers... especially no flowers. He looked at her as though he considered admitting her to the psychiatric ward, but the hospital was small and had no such facility.

Roses were precious here, he told her crossly, inthe forcibly mild tone of patience stretched beyond endurance. The nurses had gone to considerable lengths to obtain them for this particular patient because he seemed so young and so lost. They had not expected to be slighted for their care, let alone threatened; the young soldier had been crying out for a rose in his coma...

They had only meant to help him back to life.

**xxx**

When Zechs could not avoid life any longer, Noin brought him papers to sign – wads of documents to confirm that Treize's estate had been wound up, and Milliardo Peacecraft now owned the grounds, the house, the dacha. He laughed as he scrawled his old name on the letter of accpetance and a variety of other papers requiring his confirmation of the deed. Then he asked her to get him a mirror, and leave him alone.

He sat up in his bed and pulled up his knees to rest the small, round silver disk on them as he looked at himself. His face had barely scarred. The blast had scorched away his hair, but it was growing back, covering his scalp and falling in a soft silver wave over his ears and to the nape of his neck. _Months_, he thought vaguely, _has it been months already? How long is a month? A day? An hour? I know how long a night is..._

Lucky, they had said sympathetically, it would have been such a shame about your face... He had laughed at that, too, and they had decided that he was happy that his featuresremained handsome... almost beautiful had they not been marred by those flat, ashen eyes.

His head was bursting. They had scanned his brain, checked his vision, could find nothing and gave him painkillers. He tried to swallow too many of the small white tablets, not because he had planned it, but because he did not pay attention... it seemed so unimportant to count the right dosage out.

They called Noin. In spite of their protests, she had him discharged and was waiting impatiently in the clean white corridor outside his room while he stared at his face, wondering idly why he felt so numb.

_Home,_ she told him, _you need to find back to yourself...  
_But he had no home any longer.  
For Treize was dead.

**xxx**

There were those who refused to believe in the death of someone like him.

Larger than life. Arrogant, vain, flamboyant, brilliant and ruthless. A presence that kept making itself known, as though he really was still alive.

Some days, Zechs wanted to believe that he was caught in a particularly vivid nightmare, and tried to scramble out of it, only to find to his terror that he could not leave. He was trapped, reliving those moments when his life went out like a light, extinguished by this silent ball of fire that tore through Treize's gundam.

When Zero made him hear, feel, smell Treize's dying in all its murderous intensity.

On days like that, he stayed away from everyone. He stayed at home. Holed up in the tiny loghouse in the depths of the Russian forest. The groundkeeper took care to refill his stock of vodka bottles and food. Zechs was losing weight; his clothes – usually a sloppy, open shirt and carelessly buttoned jeans – began to flap around his now lanky frame like rags on a scarecrow. His hair was in a mess, and he had taken to drinking more than eating. He hardly bothered with shoes, welcoming as a merciful distraction the pain of walking barefoot in the forest . Sometimes, he left bloody prints. He found this a fitting allegory.

His sister was taking care of what he was supposed to own, though these things were delicate after all that happened. Some people would help, others would not. He did not care. He was dead, to all intents and purposes, even to himself, not to mention the rest of the world he had no strength to hate any longer. He simply did not give a fig.

Inside him, Zero kept howling, however hard he drank, however much he hurt, however loud he screamed at the woods. Inside, he was burning up alive. He knew that Treize was gone. Without redemption. However fervently he wanted to believe every new rumour that sprang up about some sighting of him.

There were many. At the beginning, when he was forced back into the world of the living, he latched on to each of those rumours like a thirsty child to its mother's breast – drinking them in greedily, madly hopeful, torn between laughter and tears, and every timeanother bubble burst, he slid a little deeper into desolation. The black tide inside him was washing up closer to the shore of his sanity, to retreat reluctantly and crash over him again, persistently eroding what was left of his self. He wanted to let go instead of clinging on.

He could not. For letting go would have meant letting go of Treize once more. Of admitting -no, of repeating - the one, the most terrible mistake of his life. Thedecisionthat cost Treize his life and left his own in limbo.

Zechs was unable to let go.  
And it was tearing him to shreds.

The world was incredulous. It was also gleeful. Treize had scared them. People like the Lighting Count scared them. And the two of them together...

They had been too much of everything.

**xxx**

He had seen the two gravestones when Relena tried to shake him from his catatonic state. The vast wilderness of the forests around the manor was beginning to blush golden, and the intense brightness of summer began to soften into the watery blue light of autumn. On the fields around the airstrip, the harvest of wheat and barley was nearly finished, and tractors with wide ploughs were beginning to turn over the stubble to reveal the glossy black soil beneath, ready for the new seed. The clouds of dust and spelt had settled, and the aroma of ripening fruit in the orchards, of dewy mornings and falling leaves wove headily through the cooling days, along with the sweet smoke of the first log fires.

On one of those mornings, with whisps of mist curling among the trees in the park, Relena arrived at the estate in near anonymity; her new role would hardly allow for such a visit to be official. Condoning the former enemy of Earth, her own brother no less, former Second to the greatest and maddest military leader ever, his partner not only in what was rapidly rewritten as a crime – no, it was better to let the dead rest, was it not? _History is always written by the victors..._

But beyond some basic precautions, she braved the opinion of the world at large and, accompanied by just a couple of her most trusted security men, dared to visit him. Told him she loved him. That she did not believe in the facade of insanity behind which he was desperately trying to bury himself... losing the shreds of his soul that he was utterly unable and completely unwilling to patch together again. Her words hurt him, and he raved and screamed his agony at her. He even made her cry, but still she insisted he travel with her.

Hollowed out beneath this violent attempt of refusal, he simply collapsed and allowed her to lead him. So they got into the jet piloted by Noin – an unmarked private plane – and flew to Europe to visit a graveyard.

_Here, _Relena said, pain raw and all too obvious in her voice as she clasped his arm and pressed him close, _it's over, you can start anew._

And he could only say, _I don't want it to be over. It cannot be over. Impossible. It is not over, it cannot be over..._ He only realised that he was yelling at the top of his lungs when her security guards began to close in on him.

Maybe one of those rumours, one day, would prove to be true.  
Had to be true. It could not be over, could it? Not really. There just had to be another chance...

They had to restrain him back then because he wanted to kick the stones over that pronounced dead him and Treize. Side by side even in death, embraced by the fat, grassy soil, with the heady smell of autumn and ripe earth filling the damp air. Lucy and Relena held on to him, but he still managed to drag them down as he kept howling and trampling the small mounds of soil that covered a couple of empty coffins.

He still hated Treize. Hated too much. Did not resist when the doctors declared he needed to undergo a series of checkups and tests and laughed when they certified him sane. They had no way of knowing. Heero Yuy might know, and his colleagues, but he did not want to see any of them – he would want to murder them all, and that would not sit well with the new powers. It would trouble his sister. He could not do that.

Noin flew him back. Relena was crying when she was hugging his bony form before he climbed into the jet. She had no one else, she told him. She needed him. He could see the flicker of fear in her wide eyes and plunged back into that night of fire and slaughter when Cinq was wiped out along with his family and his soul. The blind, hopeless despair of a small boy who felt his little sister's hand slide from his grip and could but hide and hear her scream as he watched her being bundled off by armed men... spattered with the blood and brains of his parents...

Did she feel the same helplessness now? Was his hand sliding from hers like that? He felt sorry and bitterly ashamed yet again, but he was sinking and desperate to leave... to join the one who had promised to wait, to never abandon him... the only constant in his erratic life.

But Treize was gone.

And as always when the realisation bypassed all of his wretched defences, all those flimsy walls and stockades, it hit home with breathtaking brutality. Crushing him into his place and having him grope blindly for that flat silver bottle he carried in the chest pocket of his sloppy suit jacket. Shaking, quaking on the edge of sanity, latching on to his drink as if to soak up pure oblivion.

_Quench fire with fire._ He smiled around the first mouthful of the burning liquid and drowned the rising sobs with another gulp.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Without Tears


	4. Chapter 4 Without Tears

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: see Chapter 1.

**xxx**

**Chapter 4 - Without Tears**

He felt the pressure of takeoff mould him into his seat and closed his eyes. He did not need to see his sister's slight figure now, her pale, sad face, the way she was hugging herself and how alone she appeared with just the two goons for company and her black limousine waiting at the edge of the airfield to take her back to her duties.

He wanted to sink into blackness, he longed to forget and could not help but remember. Being small again, clutching a soft toy against his pyjamas... that night, a blur of fire and blood and tears, and then stillness. The vague recollection of men dragging him and his little sister from under his bed where they had tried to hide, and him tearing loose... curses, shots... earth and grit splattering in little fountains by his feet, hitting his skin like a shower of sharply prickling needles as he ran, in hooks and turns to avoid the bullets that rained a trail after him...

Burning panic inside him giving way to chilling fear as he was hiding in a nook of the ruined stables, the smell of horse cadavers making him retch... the smoke that filled his lungs... he mindless pounding of his heart as his body cooled and stiffened, curled up between fallen, charred beams, metal water barrels and rubble. He heard men shouting and laughing as the Federation soldiers stomped through the devastation to search for survivors. At first, he jumped at the shots that each terminated a scream, or a plea, or some sobs... Later only his hands clenched harder each time, while his whole body kept shaking uncontrollably.

An order, barked in a deep, guttual voice, ended the shootings. Sometime after that, the engines of lorries growled through the crimson darkness, and he crouched tighter into his little corner as the beams of uncapped headlights fingered over the smoking ruins. His eyes were burning, he was choking with tears, and he could not cry.

_I cannot cry._

The faint wailing of a small child... Mummy... my Mummy... he had not known then whether it was his sister. He had not been able to think, or feel anything but primal fear, short of soiling himself. Instinct made him lightningfast as he sunk his teeth into the gloved hand that reached into his hiding hole, and before it could grab him and drag him out, he tried to dash off like a terrified rabbit between the booted legs that blocked his way out.

He had made no sound beyond snarls and hisses, and the tall, sturdy man in the uniform of the Federation struggled briefly until he managed to wrap the hysterical six-year old in a black military cape. Only when darkness fell around him, did the boy realise that the man was whispering in the same rough, heavily accented voice that had stopped the executions... a language he did not understand, but the tone hasty, almost nervous, as though trying to soothe him.

He went limp when he felt himself lifted off the ground by a pair of strong, sure arms. Not seeing was a blessing. There were still the smells... haunting him in his dreams forever, the stench of blood and scorched flesh, of dust and smoke so bitter it made his eyes water... but he had no tears. He was cold beyond words and shaking. He was silent for that man had not killed him when he could, and children want to live...

_Ignorance, born from innocence..._

**xxx**

The jet hummed soothingly, the alcohol began to blur his senses, and he cradled his bottle as he let himself melt into the breathing of the machine: all the little clicks and creaks, the vibration of a wing when they cut through an air turbulence, the heaviness when the plane rose and the lightness when they dropped into an airhole. It calmed him, as always, to let his senses merge with the workings of the plane.

Treize thought that this made me a good pilot. Yet it was him... always him...

**xxx**

Wrapped in the merciful blackness of the woollen cape, he had been carried, pressed against a hard, tall body. He remembered a fresh wave of despair washing over him when those arms that held him fast tried to release him, and that he clung frantically to them. The same hasty, soft whisper, in a deep voice, the voice of an older man... then he was placed on what felt like a seat, and a large, bare hand gripped his small one beneath the cloak. The hand was hard, calloused, and warm. Its grip his only anchor to reality. He held on for dear life.

He had felt the man move, until, without releasing his hand, he could sense him by his side, and then the engine of a jeep sprang to life, and the shudder of the vehicle ran through him; he could smell diesel, leather and blood, and damp wool. They drove for some time, and then the jeep rumbled over something that sounded like a large metal plank; the engine cut out and silence fell.

He was carried again and clawed into the heavy cloth when someone tried to peel it away from his head. The hands that attempted this were heavy and patient and finally succeeded. He curled up in those arms, dug his hands into his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. The nuzzle of a metal bottle forced its way between his lips; the drops of liquid that made it past his resisting tongue were bitter and sharp. A sharp, deafening whine, then his body grew incredibly heavy before all the weight fell off him again and he was floating like a feather.

_My first flight in a fighter jet... fleeing to Russia, like now..._

**xxx**

Eyes swimming and bleary, the stared out of the window of the plane into the swirling mass of grey and white. Clouds, and beyond them the bottomless blue of the sky, and beyond that starry blackness. The beauty of heaven, cold and distant to all their human squabbles that were nothing but a snippet of time, this ageless monster. Specks of dust dancing in the light... or burning up like miniature flares, lighting the path for others to follow.

_If there ever was an eternal flame, it was you, Treize... blazing a trail for the rest of us. But you also left us behind in darkness, like the Baba Yaga, riding with light before her and night behind... we were unable to follow you... so fast, like a shooting star... and just as blindingly brilliant... too much, you were too much for all of us... too much passion, too much love, too much beauty... I could feel it from when I first saw you; I was mesmerised, and it never left me... fascination... longing... wanting... the gnawing sensation of being incomplete, unaccomplished, unfulfilled... how could I be otherwise in the shadow of perfection?_

The plane touched down in the light-slashed darkness of a rain-beaten airfield. Just like back then...

**xxx**

The world around him, blinking lights, the dim glow of a cabin, his cramped curl on the seat he had been strapped in... he was dazed when the man undid the buckles of the harness, wrapped the cloack around him again and hauled him out of the jet. Into another jeep, while he was calmly giving orders to the handful of uniformed men that hurried to his assistance. Rain was washing down, cold and hard, drumming onto the skin of the plane, rising in steamy clouds from the fuselage, and dancing in myriads of small fountains on the bonnet of the jeep.

The man shoved him into the small loading space at the back and heaped blankets over him. He could hear the rain pounding – pop pop pop pop pop – onto the taut canvas of the hood. The vigorous dipping of the vehicle as the man jumped in and, after a moment, the rough rumble of the engine. The smells... he could always remember the smells best. Of wet canvas and oil. Of his own panic, crouching beneath the utter weariness that began to seep through him as the he heard tyres swish through the mud, and the aroma of something else... the forest into which they delved, whose loud, rainsodden whisper enveloped them even as they left the bustle of the airstrip behind...

He was soaked and shivering, flushing hot and cold. His hair plastered in dripping coils about his temples, cheeks and neck. The ridged metal on which he lay dug into his flesh, making reddish stripes beneath the striped fabric of his pyjamas... The soldiers had come at night, invaded his dreams and torn them apart in an apocalypse of destruction and murder. The jeep bumped through potholes and over rutted tracks, and occasionally a branch thwacked against the metal planking, making him start because those hits sounded like shots. He would be blue and black with bruises, but instead of making him cry, the pain only distracted him.

This kind of pain is good. It helps to forget, I learned that back then... that's why I was never afraid of getting hurt in battle... they couldn't grasp it at the Academy, but Treize understood. He always did.

And then the aroma of the rainy forest grew weaker, the road evened out, the jeep grinding over gravel and slowing down... The man pulled him up and set him onto his feet, passing his big hand over the boy's head in a helpless caress, and then shoved him forward with a little push to his back.

The house, set into the middle of a vast space framed by the dark rim of the forest, was huge. It always looked bigger in the dark, Zechs mused vaguely, like some fortress... or a monolith carved from rock, as stubborn and sturdy as the Khushrenadas themselves. The car had pulled up by a neatly gravelled rondel that was embraced by a grand pair of stairs, with a third flight of stairs running straight down to the rondel. The man stalked ahead, climbing one of the side stairs with long, determined strides, pulling the child along until they reached the huge pair of doors that closed off the house to the outer world. A soft golden glow emanated from one of the many high, narrow windows that broke the two-storey brickfront. It trickled softly from a gap between the drawn drapes and glittered in the relentless rain. "Stay still," the man rasped, shoving the child behind his broad back even as he lifted his other hand to rap the door.

It flew open before his knuckles made contact. To reveal a tall, pretty woman with dark hair, sharp eyes and a proud, firm mouth. She held a brightly coloured shawl closed over the chest of her white nightgown, and her hair fell freely over her back. When she saw the man, her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand, but then she reached out to grab his sleeve.

He stopped her, his hand heavily closing over her wrist. "We have a guest," he said, and then he kissed first her hand, then her mouth, enfolding her into a cold, wet embrace. "Have you watched the news?"

"I've done nothing else since you went," she replied, sliding her arm around his waist, heedless of his soaking clothes.

He hesitated. "I... we were part of that."

"You did what you could to stop it," she said, and then her glance fell over his shoulder on the child. Who stared back at her wide-eyed, as though he knew...

I did know. Had she rejected me then... but the Khushrenadas always lived by their own laws, and one of them was the law of honour, and of undying Russian hospitality that would be afforded even to total strangers. Treize had much of his mother, the Duchess... the same formidable disregard for rules made elsewhere... an equally sturdy sense of truthfulness and pride... she saved my life that night as much as that man, Treize's father. I don't want to be saved this time, but then who could? And who would bother?

"We should go inside," she said, after a heartbeat of breathless silence. Madame Khushrenada released her husband and turned into the vast, wood-panelled vestibule of the house. Her steps, long and firm like those of her man, swallowed up by the thick wine red carpets that covered every inch of the floor, and her voice calling out quietly.

To him. He had come down those huge, dark wooden stairs with the carved railings. His hair gleaming a faint copper red in the glow of the candelabra, his eyes... such an intense blue... how old was he then? Eleven? I remember him looking older than that... but then, he always was much older than his years...

"Da, Mamotchka," the youth on the stairs replied peacably and lightly skipped down the last steps. He was barefoot, clad in black slacks and a neatly buttoned white shirt, with only the cuffs hanging open. He fiddled with them, as if irritated, but on his lips lay a smile, curious and pleasing at the same time.

"Treize. How convenient that you sleep in your day clothes, son," she remarked, but her tone held no malice. "Now, where are your manners? Greet your father and our guest. Then go and take care of the child; we would not want to disturb the servants at this time of the night. He will be in need of a bath, food and clothes. Find him a bed, and make sure he gets some rest. We will talk in the morning."

**xxx**

Hands. Soft and soothing. Coaxing him out of his stupor, of his seat, no, the rain... but it was Lucy who pleaded with him, saying his name over and over until it sunk into his vodka-sodden brain and he heaved himself out of the plane and slumped into the waiting car. Retracing the journey of so many years ago... a lifetime, an eternity away. Only that it was by daylight now, grey and drab, and the rain resembled a fine, persistent mist that crept into clothes and bones with the chill of Death. She would drive him back to the house that had become his home from that night onwards.

_Because he was there._

_Because it was his home, and he was mine._

**xxx**

The youth embraced his father – three kisses pressed heartily onto stubbly cheeks, right, left, right, a firm embrace, and then he let go and took the child by the hand. "I am Treize," he said, the smile warm and steady on his face. "Come, it is nice and warm inside."

It had been a night filled with whispers and disquiet, Madame Khushrenada and her husband having secluded themselves in the drawing room, doors firmly shut, light trickling beneath in a jaundiced band on the blood red carpet. The colour had made the child sick, and Treize had cleaned up after him without a single complaint. He had let the boy keep his clothes on in the huge cast iron bathtub because he was clutching at them as though his fingers would break if anyone tried to pry them open. The bath immersed him in warmth and the aroma of roses and pine needles, an odd combination of sweet and bitter. The boy was too tired to resist the exhaustion that swept into his small body, and the fingers of the youth massaging his scalp with shampoo were almost lulling him to sleep.

Treize did not ask anything, did not try to make him talk or cry. He was just there. Wrapping him, clothes and all, into a huge bath towel of unsoftened white terry cloth, its roughness similar to the black cloak that had cocooned him on his way from Cinq to this house. Helping him along a carpeted corridor with a carved balustrade, from where he could look down onto the great staircase and the abandoned, dark vestibule. The room that would become his own for years to come lay at the end of the corridor, the brown panelled door neither inviting nor forbidding. Promising safety behind. A large window, a bed with a fluffed up mountain of down and white linen that smelled of crisply ironed cleanliness...

**xxx**

Next chapter: Dark Pools


	5. Chapter 5 Dark Pools

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: see Chapter 1.

**xxx**

**Chapter 5 - Dark Pools**

Zechs dropped into the softness of his bed even as his mind spiralled further from reality, delving into memories as though he meant to drown in them. Noin pulled off his shoes and socks and lifted his legs onto the bed. This was not the time to get undressed, wet or not – the bath towel wrapped firmly around his shoulders and head would have to do. Later perhaps, when he would be conscious enough to swallow properly, some hot tea would stave off an impending cold.

She knew enough of those episodes to deal with them as they came, and she had gotten rather good at this. Pull comforter over his slack body, flannel his hair, this impossibly long, beautiful hair that splayed in a soggy mess about his head, while he was too out of it to resist her care. Cry a few bitter tears in silence, while he was not listening. Whisper a few curses while Treize was with him, in his dreams, and not elsewhere...

Let it run its course, Une had said, there's nothing else we can do now. He has to grieve. Just hope and see. Une, griefstricken herself, refusing to be crushed, and so very close to the same fate... yet they had so much work, the task Treize had burdened them with too great to allow for proper mourning...

Treize had always tended to believe in their strength. Without the shred of a doubt. Had demanded nothing and asked too much...

She sat on the overstuffed suede chair by Zechs' bedside that had become cuffed from use, the armrests slightly shiny where the velvety leather had begun to wear away. The book on the nightstand open, on its face. _War and Peace, _a gift from Treize to his young friend. No, she would not touch it again, not since reading the single line written in Russian, in a neat, firm hand onto the inside of the hardcover: _To my eternal friend. With love. Treize._

A few sparse words that had cut her harsher than steel. Cast, like a lightning bolt, into merciless relief what she had been trying to ignore for so many years. She did not want to tell Une, but somehow the older woman seemed to know. And strangely, bear no resentment any longer against Zechs, or Noin, or Relena. As if she regretted something...

Life slipping away in an instant... too short for regrets... Noin let her hand rest in Zechs' hair, caressing slightly. Tracing the contours of his brow and profile, his lips that tightened into a hard line... even in his dreams. Did he know that, in his sleep, he was crying? Endless tears, a silent trickle over scarred skin... shallow scars from the burns he had suffered, mended skilfully by the doctors with skingrafts and laserwork, to preserve his handsome features. A pretty hull, a twenty year old body, healthy and recovered to full strength, with a wreck for a mind and a bleeding hole for a heart...

How cruel having to live like this, she mused tiredly, and how unashamedly glad she was he had made it.

It was better for him to believe he was sweating too much, and that the damp stains on his pillows were from fever. Better, for now, to imagine her touch to be someone else's... he had always needed much more patience than anyone else...

**xxx**

Zechs was dreaming of this touch. Treize tucking him into this soothing homeliness, the bed bulging around him like so many clouds, sailing off into dreamland with him as their lone passenger. Perhaps it had all been a particularly vivid nightmare – he had listened too often to his father discussing the dangers of their war-torn world with his mother. Just as Madame Khushrenada and her husband, Colonel Khushrenada of the Federation Air Force, were doing that night in the drawing room. Hushed conversation, choked whispers. The fire gone out, ashes cooling on the hearth, half-empty cups of tepid tea among papers strewn over the long table at the centre of the room.

Treize had slipped out when he believed the child asleep, and Zechs knew he had gone eavesdropping. Always inquisitive, always eager for any scrap of information – Treize was an inveterate collector with a phenomenal memory even then. He would collate, link, stash away bits of knowledge, catalogued and filed neatly, with labels and notes as to possible further use, his brain a giant library.

Treize had left the drapes open that hung to either side of the window that was set deeply into the wall, from a low sill to a high, dark panelled ceiling. Through rain-splattered panes shone the vague light of clouds, shrouding a pallid dawn. Darkness giving way to the morning as unwillingly as the child that hid beneath the mountainous down cover in the cold room.

**xxx**

Zechs groaned as the stillness of the house was roused by the clapping of the huge front doors and the roaring of a jeep that grew weaker and more distant, until it faded entirely from the tapestry of sounds. The murmur of the rain, steady and low. A rushing like the breaking of the sea on a rocky shore, but later he realised it was the wind skimming through the autumn forest. The clanking about of someone beginning to clean the numerous fire places in the house, and the distant wickering of horses...

"Sleep," he muttered groggily and tried to turn onto his side, but a slim, firm hand on his upper arm held him back.

"Drink," Noin ordered, tugging him up, and held a lidded cup to his lips.

**xxx**

He had fallen asleep after all, and woke up to the strong aroma of tea and toast, set on a silver tray by his bedside, and to Treize's smile.

_His smile. His eyes, sky blue, alert, compassionate. Never missing anything, as though the entire world were made of glass, transparent to this effortless gaze... had I fallen for him already? At that age? We spent the day trying to find clothes for me among his cast-offs, and making this room comfortable with books and pictures. He did all the work, walking back and forth, smiling instead of talking apart from the occasional 'do you like this?' when he had put up a framed painting... flowers. All those pictures were of roses, and he finished by putting one single white rose into a crystal vase on my desk. My room. My desk._

_My rose..._

Clad in anklelength black silk, Madame Khushrenada shared the table with them at dinner. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her posture straightbacked and unyielding. They hardly spoke, he hardly ate until Treize simply fed him. He let it happen, glad that someone took the intitiative for him. It was as if a load had rolled off his shoulders, to be caught by those sure hands that held him – one arm around his shoulders, the other one guiding the spoon with soup between his lips until the plate was empty.

It was never said that he would be staying. No one mentioned that night of terror. Madame Khushrenada asked him how he would like to be called, and when he stalled, she suggested the name to him that should become like his second skin. Zechs Marquise, a number and a title. Anonymous, not him. But instead of shedding his old self, they had wrapped it into a cocoon that had at first felt safe, then restrictive, later suffocating. And later still, it had become empty, not entirely without his doing. A mask, snug, shiny and cold.

Treize had taken on his load back then. Readily, willingly. Treating him with the affection one would afford a younger brother, and he had come to realise that Treize sometimes felt alone in that great house. Amid the vast estate, among an all-adult world of winter balls, business and politics, family intrigues and rare, splendid visits to the opera in Moscow and galleries in St Petersburg. A succession of discreet, strict private tutors precluded the company of other youngsters, and Treize was used from an early age to take care of himself. Carefully groomed, trained to strive for excellence in all he did, be it Latin or fencing, riding, mathematics or Russian poetry...

_They need not have pushed him. Treize always wanted perfection._

And he realised that for the Khushrenadas, haughtiness was something reserved for their dealings with their peers, and the obligations of nobility were no hollow dictum but a deeply absorbed principle of their way of life.

Their silence about that night that ended his true life allowed him to close his soul to those memories for a merciful while. He went numb in that place that should have been screaming out his pain. The thirst for life too strong in the body of a child than to drown in the adult notion of self-harm, and Treize showed him life at the estate at its most glorious. A time of wild, untamed freedom, a deep breath of fresh air before they were caught in the unavoidable web of duties and intrigue...

_If Cinq had lived, could I have become like him? Yet I never understood why so much effort was put into creating so much beauty, only to sacrifice it all on a bloodsodden altar... honour, pride, courage, all destroyed for a trifle... because this peace is no more than that, a trifling interlude in this theatre of strife... this endless waltz of blood and murder. Earth was not worth it. Nothing, no one was worth Treize's life._

_And I would give it all to have him back._

Zechs crunched his eyes shut and bit his lip to suppress the tiny sound that pressed against his teeth, even as pain wrenched through him, with breathtaking violence. His hands were trembling as his head went light and his body heavy, sinking into agony.

_No, I could never have been like him._

**xxx**

"True," Noin agreed quietly, helping him sip the hot, bitter tea. Weakly, he tugged at the towel, she unwrapped it and dropped it in a crumpled heap on the floor. "And I am glad because you would have been dead like him."

"I hate this," he rasped, clutching at his spinning, throbbing head.

"Yes," she said, watching him shift uncomfortably until he had found a semi-inclined position, the pillow stuffed against his back, that allowed him to look out of the window. A grey day. Still raining. The faint smell of burning apple wood laced through the stuffy air of his room; someone had lit the fire in the drawing room, and the smoke drew through the chimney that passed behind his fireplace too. She knew this gaze, empty and uninterested. He would sit like this for hours now, unmoving, dead to all but his dreams, withdrawn to a place he utterly refused to leave.

There was no more she could do now, she was tired and hungry, and so she bent to kiss his forehead, and he even tilted his head back a little and reached for her hand as he closed his eyes to receive her kiss. He had softened to her, but she believed it was the need for some kind of hold rather than true affection. Surely not closeness, that had been and still was reserved for someone else. Someone who stubbornly refused to truly die and go away.

"Do you want something to read?"

Knowing the answer before it was given, in a flat monotone, "No, thank you." A small pause, then, "I am sorry that I am such trouble."

Noin shook her head. "Your sister is worried."

"I will telephone her. Later." Never. He did not go near the 'phone. He burned letters unread. The large television screen in the library had been disconnected, and he had forbidden any newspapers and even radios in his presence. Relena relied on Une and Noin for news about her brother's wellbeing. It made the strain of trying to govern a lot harder on her, and Noin knew about lonely nights of tears and despair. But Relena could not remember as clearly as Zechs, and that was a blessing. She was able to move on. He was stuck.

As stuck as the ex Gundam pilots, Noin thought as she picked up the teacup and the towel and made her way downstairs to the large kitchen at the back of the house. Duo Maxwell had approached her first, asking for Zechs. How did he know? Heero... ah, of course, Heero Yuy who was still close to Relena. Too acute to have missed the changes in the girl's moods, even beyond her carefully controlled public persona. They were too well trained to miss that sort of thing.

It bothered her how interested they seemed, even if they tried to play it down. Yuy had cuffed Maxwell up the head and called him a baka before giving her his version of a smile – a frightening, dark grimace that did not reach his eyes – and dragging the braided youth off, berating him in an intense, quiet voice.

How odd. It had been worth telling Une, but the older woman did not appear surprised. Let it go, she had instructed Noin, just track them closely.

A silly little game of cat and mouse with rather interesting results: Yuy and three of their pack – Barton, Chang, and Maxwell – had been fiddling around in the archives for a considerable period of time already, accessing files with a security clearing several levels above theirs, trying to find... what were they searching for? Further checking told her that their payroll did in no way account for their shopping habits – flash clothes, eating out, getting smashed in the most expensive places in town – and that their other ex team mate, young Winner, kept them liquid. And in spite of Hilde and Sally who showed more than plain interest in Maxwell and Chang respectively, the five young men always seemed to cling together in their tight, closed little group.

As if afraid... or on a mission.

And then she came across a data analysis run by Yuy, and realised what she had suspected: they were looking for Zechs, and Treize...

Une received her report placidly. Let them seek; it will keep them busy. They need to do something, and I need to keep an eye on them. It would not do to have them run loose at the moment, the situation is not in favour of ex mercenaries, let alone gundam pilots.

That applied to Zechs, too.

So Une had them grounded in a pointless mission. Noin felt too washed out to ask any questions. Une's gaze had begged for trust, and the younger woman had agreed to tag the young pilots whenever possible.

She washed the cup in the large porcelain sink. The kitchen lay abandoned, her steps echoed on the black and white tiles of the floor as she moved about to fetch some bread from the larder and made herself breakfast. No point trying Zechs, he would not eat anything until the evening, and then it could be porridge or junk, he would hardly notice. He had been wasting away as though he was trying to starve himself to death, and it had taken her a while to understand why he did not just take a bullet – he did not want to betray his sister. He was caught between not finding the strength to live properly, and the obligation to hang around.

All it took was someone telling him he would do Relena a favour, Noin mused, and a cold shiver ran through her. There were enough folk who tried to damage her, the war barely over, the old squabbles springing up again, albeit muted and much more cautious... people had enough of bloodshed for a while, but they were forgetting fast. They were always forgetting fast. Good thing Zechs refused to let any news reach him. Someone would take pleasure in telling him he was a liability for Relena; Zechs would try to do the only thing he believed to be right, and that's why Noin was here now.

When she wandered back into the vestibule and to the main doors, she found the stillness of the house too oppressing to stay inside. She stepped out onto the wide stairs, tipped back her head and let the rain wash over her face. Cold, hard rain, and lots of it. She was soaked within minutes.

And almost died of a shock when a warm, heavy hand settled on her shoulder and she heard Zechs say, "You'll catch a cold out here."

**xxx**

"I'm not cold."

Treize cast off his furcoat with the same flourish with which he had swung his legs over the windowsill and dropped into his room. _No, it was my room... or was it? Can't I even remember this?_

When Zechs climbed inside, he was received with a warm embrace and a fierce kiss. "Miliusha," Treize murmured then, enfolding him again.

Zechs stood still, realising he was already a little taller than his friend. It was a startling discovery for he had become used to looking up to Treize. "Let it be my birthday today." He sounded sulky, his tone veering between begging and demanding as he fumbled down between him and Treize. He was caught by Treize's swift, warm grip before he could slip his fingers where he wanted them.

Treize sighed, his breath stirring a few strands of hair behind Zechs' ear. The window still stood ajar, frosty winter air washing into the chill room. From downstairs they heard the music and chatter of the Christmas ball from which they had escaped earlier, to spend the afternoon on horseback, in the snowbound forest. Since Treize had returned on a few precious days of leave from his latest posting, they had wanted nothing more than have time for one another – there was so much to tell...

_No, not really. There was but one thing._

"Fine," Treize consented quietly at last. "So be it."

They did not speak while they undressed and slipped under the duvet.

_He was so warm... no, hot, his skin burning. Hands everywhere, sure, calm and yet... and yet, he was trembling. I could feel it, and it made me nervous, and of course he noticed. He always did._

Before Treize could say anything, Zechs pulled him on top, cradling him between his legs, holding him tight, worried that he might balk. Treize leaned down, smiling, to close his mouth with a kiss, this one firm but surprisingly tender as though savouring the moment while one of his hands slipped under the duvet to do something Zechs could not see. Then he felt Treize shift, bracing one thigh to either side of Zechs' hips, lips still sealing his mouth, gently demanding, one arm slipping behind his shoulders to lift him up a little until they sat amidst billowing down covers, bodies flush, Treize in Zechs' lap, his legs framing the younger man.

_But...  
__Shhh..._

And then Zechs sank into a heat that made his mind go white and his body burn up.

_I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Tre...  
__I love you too... but you know that, don't you?  
__But I... it should have been me...  
__Not yet, Miliusha. Patience, just a little longer. A few years, what are they to us? Nothing but dust dancing in the wind..._

How right he had been, and now the dust had gone, the storm had settled.  
There was nothing left of them.  
**  
xxx**

Next chapter: Treize's Soldiers


	6. Chapter 6 Treize's Soldiers

For Karina.

**The Lightning Arc 7 - My Rose**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M/NC-15 for m/m relationship  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories.

Summary: The King is dead... but is this really it? How will Zechs make his way back into the world of the living? What have women to do with it all? And a shard of gundanium? What is hiding behind Lady Une's smooth Preventer surface?

**xxx**

**Chapter 6 - Treizes's Soldiers**

He had not expected this. He had been clear about it: if they wanted to celebrate their kind of Christmas at the estate, they could do as they pleased – Noin and Relena, who arrived discreetly in an unmarked private plane on the airstrip that so many years ago had brought him here.

To what had been his home and now was but a hollow shell, padded comfortably with the trappings of a well-off life. Because life was missing from this place of hushed whispers and reluctant steps, where a few long-standing servants scurried about knowingly, intent on not disturbing their master. Prone to tempers he was, and too partial of hard drink and his shotgun. It would not do to annoy him, or to run into him at an inopportune moment. He had changed so much, they muttered among themselves, he had become sick in his mind and was not himself anymore. Not since Treize was gone.

It was the affinity to their previous master that kept them here, welded to the place and everything in it, including Zechs, and Zechs knew it. It did not help matters.

He had expected to be left alone once the women arrived and began to organise the household for the period of festivities. It would all be rather low key, and it occurred to him that the atmosphere would have suited a funeral banquet rather than Christmas.

Perhaps it was just that. According to Russian custom, the tree would be erected in the vestibule not before the last day of the year. The women would attend a service at the nearby private chapel – a tradition kept by the Khushrenadas throughout generations, even though it was not necessarily a measure of piety for them but a show of respect for the old customs.

Zechs had refused to join in. He would spend the anniversary of Treize's birthday and death alone, feeling he had no reason to keep up something that had nothing to do with him. Not anymore, not without Treize. He would cope somehow with the presence of life in the great house while the women were staying, and breathe a sigh of bitter relief when they would part after the day of the kings. (1)

They meant well, but they were too much company, he grouched, listening into the ginger-and-chocolate scented stillness of the house. They worried about him. They told him not to drink so much, to eat more, to seek life again. They did not understand, but it was not their fault and he felt reluctant to rebutt them. He had hurt them so much already...

Now Relena and Noin had gone out, for a walk in the snowbound park though he found it odd that they should take a jeep along. It did not matter though: the servants had retreated now, so late in the evening, and most of the lights were out. Through the open window of his room, he could see a black, starspangled sky. It would be a night of bitter frost.

He heard the plane, a high-pitched whine that carried clearly through the cold air, and he saw its position lights blink as it described a wide arch to home in onto the air strip. He was too drunk to bother – it would be something the women dealt with. Perhaps they had ordered some more supplies for their idea of a celebration. They were all hurting; they could all do with some distraction.

Sitting on the windowsill, he dangled one leg into the room, and pulled up the other to wrap his arms around and rest his chin on his knee. The air was still, without a breeze, and the woods surrounding the park crisp with frost. It smelled of snow that lay thick and dense on everything, muffling the sounds of life. A shroud for the earth beneath.

He did barely feel the cold seeping through his thin shirt and trousers. He was barefoot, as most of the time, his hair unbound. He had warmed himself with half a bottle of vodka. It saved logs for the fire. Later he would crawl under the down comforter, shrouding himself too into the soft whiteness, the illusion of a warm body by his side and the voice that kept whispering into his dreams.

The jeep arrived back at the house shortly after that – Zechs had barely managed another glass of his drink, and felt rather annoyed at this interruption of the cold silence that had settled over the house and the park. He could not see – the driveway ended in front of the house, his room gave onto the back, like the drawing room Treize used to love so much for its view. He was not interested either in finding out what Noin and his sister had been up to, but when he heard the entrance door creak open and the muffled sound of talking voices, he could not help but notice. There were four of them now, three women and a man. A young man. A voice he knew from somewhere, yet he was too far gone to figure it out.

He jumped and almost tumbled from his place when he heard the reluctant rap on his door. Stay out, he thought, not sure whether he had said it out aloud. He hated being disturbed now. He suddenly hated anyone being close, let alone disturbing him thus. This night belonged to him and Treize, they knew that, didn't they...

"Zechs?" the male voice enquired.

He froze. The glass fell and rolled over the floor, soaking the carpet with the remaining sip of vodka.

"Are you in there?"

_Go away._

"Zechs?" Another rap, a bit firmer this time. The tone of the voice changing subtly, from reluctant to worried.

_Just go the hell away._

The doorknob was turned, hesitantly as though the man outside was unsure of whether he should be doing this.

Zechs swallowed hard, his breath suddenly flowing into his lungs like boiling water, and he felt a wave of nausea rise from his stomach to his throat, choking him.

The door clicked open and slowly opened by a crack. Wide enough for him to see what he refused to believe: a pinched face, large, wondrous eyes the colour of dusk, and this impossibly long, thick copper braid...

"Hey," Duo said, a hint of relief warring with glassy tension in his voice. He even tried a smile – it made him look oddly childlike.

The child soldiers.  
For whom Treize had found mercy in his heart.  
_Sometimes, mercy is a crime... there was no mercy for me..._

Zechs just glared at him from beneath ragged bangs, and Duo took a couple of steps back, mouth slackening, eyes growing wide. For a moment, they stared at one another, until the younger man could not bear it any longer and drew a deep breath – but before he could say anything, Zechs unfurled his long frame and, with a few swift, powerful steps, was close up and personal, fists clenching at his sides, chin thrust forward, pale eyes ablaze as he hissed, "I hate you. I hate you all."

He kept pressing closer, all but shoving the shorter man out of the door. Disregarding the filling up of those huge eyes, the pain deep within, the small hopeless gasp. He locked out anything but a spark of grim satisfaction at the younger man's suffering.

Yet those eyes also held a good measure of anger, the set of Duo's jaw was grim, his stance defiant. "You… you had it all, Zechs. At least you had it all before you lost everything. We had nothing, and we still have nothing."

"So?" Zechs gave Duo a harsh push against his shoulder. Duo faltered before he caught himself and bit his lip.

"You're trespassing," Zechs ground out. "Get lost."

"You're drunk," Duo retorted stubbornly. "You think you get better like that, pickling your brains to shit?"

_I want to close my eyes now…_

"Never thought you'd be a coward, Marquise! Holing up here, getting sloshed-."

"I AM a coward. And I don't care. Get out."

"Fuck you!" Duo clutched the doorframe for hold, trying to push back against Zechs who attempted to unclasp those strong, bony fingers one by one. Duo held on. "You know that they're squabbling over Khushrenada's grave? Some of your new politicians wanna have it flattened 'cos there's no body. Missing in action, too soon to declare him dead, but you know that, dontcha? No grave, no martyr. No memories."

"I'll be the first to volunteer," Zechs gasped, groping for the hunting gun he kept leaning against the doorpost, if only to entertain himself by firing at leaves stirring in the breeze, or even into the blue air, aiming at a star or another. Never touching any of them. Never hitting home.

_And forget about the time that goes on…_

"I hoped," the soft voice of a woman cut into his fogged mind, "that you would help me." Duo suddenly let go and took a small step aside, and Zechs found himself face to face with Une. Pale, perfectly turned out with braided hair, dressed in a neat field uniform and clean boots. She looked tired and determined as she stretched out her hand to touch his fingers. "It is good to see you."

His mind went blank.

"We both… Lucrezia and I, we both hoped you would. So did your sister."

The women ganging up on him? He nearly laughed out loud, but he only brought out a chortling sound as he slumped back against the doorframe and let his head thud back against the brown wood.

"Won't you ask me in?" Une's voice sounded thin and a bit lost. "We travelled in haste…"

He beckoned with one hand, a listless gesture, while he ran his other hand through his hair in an attempt to rake it out of his face at least. When had he last washed it? He could not remember. Une did not look around his room, she did not gather him up, she merely sat down on the chair by his desk and folded her hands in her lap. Duo stayed by the door, fidgeting as he kept scanning the hallway in between quick glances at them.

Zechs sank into a crouch, and finally lifted his head to look at her properly. "I am sorry," he said, his tone ragged and shaky with drink.

"Don't be," she replied quietly.

And without thinking, he slurred, "He had your picture on his screen…"

Une smiled weakly. "He had you in his heart. I know. I understand. I am not jealous." _Not anymore, not if there is so much to regret..._ She took a deep breath and sagged a little even as she wiped her eyes with a heavy gesture. "I came to make an offer. To ask..." She let her hand drop and stared at him, her face blank, eyes dark and damp. "Whether you would consider… working for me. I know Lucrezia would welcome it, and I… I need someone who understands. Someone to talk to."

"What about HIM?" Zechs bit out, with a sharp nod at Duo.

Une did not stir, and her voice remained quiet, steady, tired. "Those boys are unwanted now, a security risk if we don't monitor them, so I decided to put their skills to good use."

She paused, perhaps hoping for an answer, but Zechs lurched back to the window and leaned his head against the frame. He folded his amrs, and his long silver hair fell over his face, hiding him perfectly.

"It is hard to be alone," Une said softly behind him. "For all of us. I need people I can trust."

"Trust?" came the muffled retort. "After what I've done?"

"You would be working away from the public glare. It would not be the usual police work either but intercolonial cases, high-level investigations, industrial espionage and sabotage, illegal arms trade and manufacturing… Your connections and your skills would be invaluable. We also have plans for a large project on Mars." She hesitated, wiped her face once more before she said, her voice brittle, "He trusted you. Right to the end."

Zechs crawled into himself at that, pressing his arms hard against his stomach, and began to rock slightly on his heels. "There was no end," he murmured. "They're right to remove that damn grave."

Une looked down at her hands again, twining and unlinking her fingers. "It would be good to have old friends close. It is a new world, and it feels cold."

"Treize's world," he rasped. "Peace forever. I'm a soldier, not a policeman."

Une's answer came cool, calm, without missing a beat. "Then accept your orders and carry them out. We still are who we were. He knew. He trusted us enough to carry on-"

"Stop that," Zechs murmured wearily. "I heard enough of that already."

"Yes. There's only one justice, and it's in the winners' hands."

He half turned to glare at her from behind the curtain of his hair. Vaguely wondering why she was talking like that, oddly touched by her words – as though it was Treize speaking, he thought fuzzily, and his heart wrenched as always when the pain became too intense and the alcohol too weak.

Une held his gaze, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yet we are the instruments they need. The tools they must pick up for they have none of their own making. We are shaping this world, it is us making their future. Just as he wanted. The conqueror absorbed by the conquered. We still are the ones with the skills, the knowledge, the money, the connections."

His eyes widened a little, and he braced himself on the windowsill, his hands whiteknuckled, his back stiff. If he had not known better, he would have thought he saw a spark of triumph in her eyes. Quiet, frosty, vengeful triumph, with a good helping of spite, the darkness in her gaze deep and hard. Grief had neither softened Une, nor changed her mind of a soldier...

_I am looking for the future…_

"I…"

She looked at him expectantly. Hopeful, too, but somehow he sensed that she did not doubt his answer. She had known. Une had known him better than anyone, perhaps even better as Treize for whose affection they had heatedly competed at times.

_Know your enemy, and sometimes you might discover an unexpected ally..._

If he was right... if he was reading her hints correctly, then perhaps he could do something else than drink and rot away in seclusion.

"What would you have me do?"

She tugged at the fingertips of her gloves to straighten them, a small, nervous gesture that reminded him of Treize. "Would you truly want to know?"

He blinked and raked his hand through his hair. His heart was thudding hard against his ribs, and he could hear his own pulse pound in his temples. Duo Maxwell stood by the door in complete silence – a miracle indeed – and did not seem in the slightest surprised by all this. Was it a trap? Had they come after him to finally lock him away for good, in some sanatorium for the terminally and criminally insane?

A bitter chuckle bubbled up in his throat, and he shook his head. "I have nothing better to do."

Her smile was full of shadows. Her eyes redrimmed, exhaustion written into every small wrinkle on her forehead, and in the pair of sharp lines between her eyebrows. Bitterness etched into the lines that ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth that was thinlipped and harsh beneath its coat of discreet lipstick. Yet beneath this veneer of tiredness, he could see a soul of steel, something he recognised as familiar, and suddenly something began to lift off his own troubled mind. Slowly, by degrees. Like blindness receding, a fog melting away, greyness giving way to colour again.

A world of colour.

Life.  
A purpose.  
Finding Treize, somehow, somewhere other than in helpless dreams.

It was too good to be true. A trap, to harm Relena. Yes, that was it, of course. A web of lies to catch him, and bring her down without glory, in a haze of shame and pain... Zechs swallowed a sob and bit his lip. "I'm no good to you now."

"Let me be the judge of this," Une said, almost softly. She crossed the room until she was so close he could smell a hint of her perfume – roses, he registered, with acute pain lancing through his chest. Who had worn it first, Treize or her? Did it matter? Now, after all that had passed?

She looked at him for an endless moment, before nodding once. "I would be honoured if you would agree to head the project on Mars. Officially, it will be classed as a terraforming project. If you are interested, I would show you the rest of the files back at the Preventers HQ. But I can tell you that we are still here. We have never gone away. And you are part of us."

"Us?" he breathed, barely trusting his ears, his voice, his mind. There had been so many illusions already.

Une took his hand and pressed it firmly before letting it slip again. "Welcome," she murmured, "to New OZ, Colonel."

**xxx**

Zechs, slumped onto the hard bench seat of the military jet, stared out of the window into the swirling blue and white beneath the grey wings. The big metal bird feeling familiar around him, the cold ridged metal of its skin pressing harshly into Zechs' back.

Across sat Duo, looking very tired, hands dangling between his knees, head lolling forward as he drifted in and out of a heady doze.

Une co-piloted for Noin.

He felt too numb to fight the memories that had begun to flood back with blazing intensity, wave after wave, as though no time at all had passed between the explosion of Epyon and the declaration of peace that ended the war of all wars. He let himself drift.

Une had found the one argument to convince him. To drag him back into this hateful new world that had nothing to do with him. A corruption of the dreams of purity and love they had entertained… or perhaps, he had, hence the crash of illusions. Treize had tended to be more realistic. More forgiving, perhaps, in his own strange way. You expect too much, my friend… ordinary people have ordinary dreams… it would be wrong to judge them by your own measure…

_I am looking for the future  
__That cannot be expected by anyone…_

He was looking for nothing anymore. He was dreaming, drifting into those memories, allowing them to swamp his mind and drown him.

**xxx**

"They have decided to flatten the graves," Noin stated dryly. "Because Milliardo is not dead, and no one has found Treize's body."

After a blast that would have blown apart anything in a blast of particles and fire... Zechs winced at the blatant stupidity of this, but he merely shook his head.

"Let them," Une said quietly, her lips thinning with a fine smile that left her eyes dark. "And see what they make of it."

And so it happened that the graves that proclaimed the death of the Lightning Count and His Excellency, General Khushrenada, were removed, the rich dark soil turned over and flattened, made into green meadow, woven through with summer blooms when the year had passed. Amid great publicity, it was announced to the world that the man who had held the greatest delusions ever maintained by anyone had vanished from the face of Earth and the Colonies for good, with not even a site to remember his name.

**xxx**

Zechs studied the last of the stack of newspapers quietly, absorbed by the photographs that illustrated yet another set of screaming, carefully orchestrated headlines. Shots of Treize and him, mostly, cooking up old scandals again, replete with rumours and slander, augmented with lots of invented, and a few slighly more truthful details of the salacious kind. He could not help the numb, dragging pain that settled inside his chest, as always...

Always when, against all hope, he hoped, for a flash of a second, only to clamp down savagely on his agony and lock it away firmly where he could ignore it for another while. He lived in stages: dull, quiet, numb, alternating with raving, raging, maddening pain caused by yet another irrational spark of hope. He hated hope with a vengeance.

Noin peered over his broad shoulder. "They actually tell people that his body has not been found," she said, incredulously. "How stupid..."

Zechs snorted softly in agreement. Une looked up from behind her desk and pushed her glasses up a little. "I think Relena is rather good at this sort of game."

"She's my sister," Zechs said wryly, with a hint of pride. Treize had been right, yet again: Relena was strong, stubborn in a way she shared with her brother, and knew the political game very well. Allowing those indignant factions to succeed in their crusade to eradicate the memory of the general, knowing full well that this would play into the hands of those who remained true...

Relena, ruthlessly veering between suppressing the real news and stoking the furnace of speculation. Creating a smoke screen behind which Une could work, hidden from the public glare. Zechs allowed himself a smirk that distorted his features into an unpleasant grimace. Noin placed her warm, firm hand against his cheek, and the smirk melted away. It was good to be able to yield, he mused vaguely as he breathed in her aroma of earth and sun.

She smiled and was about to reply when the door to his office hissed open and Une walked in. "Yes," she said, her voice quiet and cool, with a hint of satisfaction, "Treize did well to put faith in her. We had news from our search teams: they found a suitable... object."

She bent to tap a few commands onto the touch screen of the desktop in front of Zechs, and the screen began to come alive with images, still and moving.

Showing a scrap of torn, scorched, metal, rainbow-coloured beneath a layer of black cinder, warped by incredible heat, enough to melt the edges of the massive shard of gundanium armour plating that once had been part of a gundam, or perhaps something larger still.

"I had it collected, and arrangements for a discreet transport to Russia are underway as we speak," Une went on, straightening and crossing her arms with an air of confidence.

Ever the faithful soldier, Zechs mused, bright, strong, clear... the women were right, no one could complain if he decided to bury a piece of scrap metal on his private ground, deep into the rich, fertile soil that once had given birth to someone like Treize.

Zechs marveled a little longer at the pictures, a wistful smile settling in the corners of his mouth. "I never saw his plans... entirely."

"None of us did," Une replied softly, "only he had the vision... the strength to believe in the future. But he entrusted each of us with a part of his dream. He worked out the strategy, leaving it to us to find suitable tactics in time." Her smile warmed a little as her gaze wandered from Noin to Zechs. "He did well. For us. For the future."

**xxx**

On the anniversary of the ultimate battle, the shard of plating, a massive, two-storey tall obelisk of ragged gundanium coloured an angry rainbow blue by the furnace of an explosion, was hoisted up and sunk into a foundation laid at the main entrance to the Khushrenada estate that now belonged to Zechs.

A small crowd, here by invitation only, had gathered at the house earlier on. They had arrived in trickles – most of them in private planes, some by train and jeep. Zechs recognised all of them: ex Alliance personnel, a few ex OZ officers, of which a surprising number bore the Preventer badge, tagged discreetly to the lapels of their civilian suits. He even saw some men who were working for the new world government, and one who had been a Romefeller official.

Une knew her mission well.

They had begun the ceremony informally, with a few toasts to warm up by the roaring fires that had been lit in each of the fireplaces of the great house, an echo of the old splendor of days gone by. Yet instead of fading away, this echo had become clearer and stronger with each new arrival. Laughter had sprung up amid the hushed talk, and had stayed with them as they swapped memories and gossip old and new. The buffet had been stacked with what the estate produced: cold game roast, pickled eggs, gherkins and salted mushrooms, rose jelly, rye bread, borstsh and shtshi, smoked fish, honeyed fruit and nuts. There were coffee, tea from a bubbling samowar, clear iced vodka, all served on fine silver, white porcelain and cut crystal.

As the rooms grew hotter, so the chatter became more lively, until the grandfather clock in the drawing room began to chime. Silence began to subdue the talking, and when the last gong had rung out, the stillness was complete.

"It is time," Une said, from the entrance to the vestibule.

They began to move, feet shuffling towards the door. They pulled on their fur coats and donned scarves and hats against the biting cold of the Russian winter, and slowly made their way down the wide driveway through the park, towards the gate that separated the estate from the rest of the world.

A procession, crunching its black and winding path through the knee-deep snow that covered the drive that had been cleared only a few hours before to make room for the jeeps. In the twilight of the early winter dusk, it still snowed, a dense white curtain dropping from the low sky to the sleeping earth, to set the stage for one of the last acts of a drama.

How appropriate that the world should vanish now...

At the gate, they began to cluster around the deep pit that had been dug, just inside, under the hissing light of giant flares. Fires kept the soil at the sole of the pit free of frost so it could be shovelled back later to cover the webbing of steel rods. A giant concrete mixer lorry kept turning its barrel, exhaust fumes billowing blue in the white and grey of the snowy dusk.

And then, before the solemn eyes of the assembly, the soaring sweep of the shimmering metal was cemented in, held upright by a complex arrangement of cranes and heavy building machinery such as used in terraforming projects. Snow settled on shoulders and hats, and in spite of shuffling about in ankle-deep, freezing mud, no one complained once.

Instead, a kind of tense expectancy settled over them. Noin stepped forward, looked up at the soaring shard of metal, and then back at the crowd, quietly letting her gaze wander, seeking out each face in turn, locking eyes with each of them – fellow officers at the Preventers, the ex-OZ men that had taken their leave before the purges after the war could flush them out, and people who were unhappy with the new order of the world. "Our general is missing in action. Our colours have changed, but our hearts are the same. The future does not wait."

Deep silence. Zechs shifted tensely. One of our jobs, Une had told him, slightly sarcastic, is to chase a chimera. We are to terminate any rumour about his still being alive. It suits our purpose for it will keep us busy forever – he was a legend before they decided to give it colour.

It was a subtle game to play. When OZ was dismantled, a large chunk of their funds was used to set up the Preventers. With it came carefully 'cleansed' and cleared personnel, taking in the expertise OZ had amassed. And the scientific files, the surveillance files, the experiments... even the gundam pilots, including himself. Zero. Everything. He could not help a smirk that crept over his face.

When Une joined Noin, the hushed silence appeared to still even the snow that had been falling for days on end.

"So today we remember," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly, "we are soldiers of stardust. We are the army that never retreats. We will not lose our way."

"We will not lose," the crowd enunciated, a dark murmur melting into the even whisper of wet snow.

And Zechs felt his lips move soundlessly, repeating the words, and a smile, soft and without bitterness, settled on his face.

_Soldiers of stardust.  
Until the faraway dawn. _(3)  
**  
xxx**

THE END of LA7

**Notes:**  
(1) day of the kings - 06 January  
(2) a nod to a verse from the lyrics of Treize's image song, 'Stardust Soldiers':  
(3)reference to Zechs' image song, 'Faraway Dawn'


End file.
